


How To Accidentally Acquire a Brother

by 172



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Brotherly Bonding, Case Fic, Child Neglect, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Not Robin, i've accidentally made harley and ivy tim's hot gossipy lesbian wine aunts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 95,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24617071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/172/pseuds/172
Summary: Jason's been stuck on this drug case for a whole month and he's got nothing. That is, until his tiny, anxious ex-neighbor shows up at his safehouse with a backpack full of evidence saying that the entire drug operation is being run by his parents.Tim figured out that his parents were big-time drug traffickers at age nine, but when people start dying and Batman won't listen to him, the only available option is the Red Hood, who's just as likely to shoot him as he is to help him. That's why it's such a surprise when Tim shows up at his safehouse and Gotham's most undead and dangerous vigilante invites him in for spaghetti dinner.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Pamela Isley
Comments: 749
Kudos: 2382





	1. Chapter 1 (Jason/Tim)

**Author's Note:**

> For the purpose of this AU:  
> Tim is 13  
> Jason is 17  
> Damian is 10  
> Dick and Babs are 20

JASON

Ok so it is quite possible that pissing off an entire warehouse full of armed and very angry gang members was not the absolute best idea that Jason has ever had, but at this point, he’s kinda got to roll with it. The drug shipment that Jason has been tracking for a week had finally been handed off to the leader of a medium-sized not-super-duper-dangerous gang at 11 that night, and Jason had been sitting in the rafters of the warehouse, waiting for the shipment to land, since eight-freaking-thirty, so when the crate was finally dropped off, almost an entire hour late, he was not too keen on the idea of waiting for a whole extra hour to find the perfect drop time. 

In hindsight, he probably should have waited, Jason thinks, as about two dozen guns go off, with every single bullet headed his direction, only a couple of seconds after he dropped two canisters of red smoke on either end of the warehouse. 

Jason has already landed on another rafter by the time the bullets reach his previous perch, and the heavy Red Hood signature smoke fills the warehouse, but not quite fast enough for the surprise factor he was really going for. Well, gotta deal with it now, Jason thinks, before cocking his guns and systematically incapacitating the members of whatever-gang-this-is. 

Bodies are hitting the floor left and right, heads disappearing into the heavy red smoke, but bullets are still flying in every direction in the warehouse, all of the gang members shooting upwards randomly in hopes of catching the Red Hood. And what could possibly be worse than a completely random obstacle course of bullets flying from a horde of terrible shots?

Jason leaps from rafter to rafter, twisting out of the way of the random spray of bullets, and picks off the remaining men with only a little difficulty, not really worrying about trying to make kill shots on some low-level drug dealers for whatever-gang-this-is-now, but also not particularly caring how many of them bleed out. Green haze creeps into his field of vision as he fires, the pit rage roiling in his stomach, rising as each body thuds against the concrete floor of the warehouse. 

In the space of only a minute or two, the Red Hood was standing in the middle of a field of bodies, breathing hard and trying to force down the rising anger. After his detox with Roy and Kori on the island, the pit rage had been manageable, easier to ignore, but in the heat of the moment, it almost always reared its ugly green head. 

And finally, finally, Jason had a full crate of Angel Juice, sitting right in front of him in the dissipating cloud of red smoke. 

Angel Juice had shown up about three months ago, first only a faint whisper, barely even a rumor, from somewhere out of the Bowery. Some new drug, similar to heroin, one that provided an almost instantaneous high that lasted for close to an entire day. It was cheap as hell and just as dangerous, with 51 deaths in just the first month that it was on the street, and the numbers climbing every week. Nobody knew where it was coming from, but it seemed to Jason that almost every single gang in Crime Alley was ending up selling it. 

The problem was, Jason was never able to track the shipments. Maybe if he still had Babs in his corner, but on his own, he was only ever able to find the Angel Juice after it had been distributed to dealers to sell. But now, finally, an entire month after he had started to try and find the group behind the Angel Juice, he had a freshly packaged crate of the injectable death. 

After the third working girl he knew, and the fifth kid, had been found dead thanks to an overdose of Angel Juice a week and a half ago, Jason had decided it was time that this new drug rise on his priority list but it turns out tracking the original shipments was an absolute bitch. The paper trail was practically nonexistent, the transportation system twelve kinds of fucked over, and all of the tracks covered with meticulous care. Somebody was spending a shit ton of money to distribute the Angel Juice, and a shit ton of money to make sure that the drug could never be traced back to them. He had to admit it, Jason was frustrated as hell. 

But here he had a full crate, and this was the break that he needed to get out of the rut he had been stuck in for the month regarding the drug. 

Jason carefully examined the box containing the shipment. On the outside, slightly dented, unassuming cardboard with a generic-looking label. Jason fished a penknife out of his pocket and peeled off the label, stuffing it in his jacket for later investigation before slicing through the plastic packing tape on the top of the box. 

Inside of the typical cardboard sat a wooden crate with no label, several nails holding the top of the box closed. Jason turned to scan the warehouse, now devoid of red smoke but with two dozen bodies, either unconscious, dead, or unable to do anything littering the floor. And, aha, a crowbar held loosely in the grip of one of the fallen men nearest Jason. 

He pulled the crowbar out of the lax grip of the unnamed would-be drug dealer and levered open the crate, immediately flinging the tool as far away as possible with a shudder. Fucking Joker and his fucking torture methods. 

Nestled in the crate were small bottles of the yellowish fluid. Jason counted six rows of six, and who knew how deep it went. That was a shit ton of Angel Juice.

With a sigh, he began to poke through the crate, looking for any sort of clue as to its shipper, but there wasn’t anything more than six layers of foam and fluid, and hot damn, that meant that just one crate had 216 bottles of Angel Juice. That was 216 possible bodies for just one little shipment, for a medium level-almost entirely obscure-gang and their dealers. 

But there was nothing else. No logo, no paper, nothing showing up under the ultraviolet penlight Jason was shining into the unpacked box. Fuck. No lead but a generic FedEx shipping label on a generic cardboard box dropped off along with orders of iron screws by an oblivious mailman. Fuck! 

Jesus Christ on a cracker, a week and a half dedicated to finding this box in this warehouse at this time, only for the suppliers of the drugs to be too fucking sneaky for him to glean any substantial information at all from an entire shipping crate of the shit. 

Jason’s head shot up as he heard sirens wailing in the distance, likely in response to the excessive gunfire that had wrapped up not even fifteen minutes ago, so he dropped a small explosive on the ground next to the unpacked drugs to ensure that they never hit the streets and hauled ass outta the warehouse, heading back towards his nearest safehouse to go over his (very meager) supply of information on the source of the Angel Juice. 

After running every number, code, and scannable image on the shipping label, there was nothing indicative of a shipment of drugs popping up. And hey, he probably needed two or three more labels to be able to identify any patterns, but all that he could find was that this was a routine shipment of iron screws among eight other routine shipments of iron screws, and it was shipped directly from the factory to the construction zone containing the warehouse that Jason had just raided. 

The buyer and seller of the screws checked out completely (and weren’t even located in Gotham), and besides, the Angel Juice had clearly been shipped via other companies’ heftier shipments as well. Not gonna lie, Jason was frustrated as fuck and tired as hell, so once he hit the third or fourth dead end with the assorted tracking numbers, shipment numbers, and barcodes on the label, he stripped out of his Red Hood gear and practically stumbled into the shower. 

The hot water of the shower did much to relieve the lingering tension in his muscles, letting the roil of the pit rage in his gut calm like a snake going to sleep until it was barely a buzz in the back of his skull. Sighing, he turned the water off and slipped into his civvies, just sweatpants and an old T-shirt of Roy’s. 

It was nearing three in the morning, and Jason was all outta brainpower to try and think through the supply chain of Angel Juice, so he slipped a gun under his pillow, double-checked his security system, and flipped off the lights, sinking into his bed. He was out before his head even hit the pillow. 

At ten the next morning, Jason groaned and rolled out of bed, his shoulder aching. “Fuck, must have fucking pulled it last night,” he grouses to himself before shuffling into the main room of his safehouse.

It wasn’t his nicest apartment that he maintained, but it certainly wasn’t some shitty disposable bolthole. There was the living room and small kitchen that made up most of the square footage of the safehouse, with a couch, coffee table, and TV acting as his living space and a desk, computer setup, and several cabinets crammed against one wall. 

The other wall made up the not-too-shabby kitchen with a tiny little table tucked to the side, mainly used when Roy, Kori, or one time, Dick, came for dinner. Then there was his bedroom and the bathroom. It wasn’t massive or particularly homey, save for the cramped bookshelf in one corner of the bedroom, but it was perfectly fine for one vigilante who only used it for a week or two at a time every two months or so. 

Jason padded into the kitchen, still half asleep, and set a pan of butter to melt on the gas stove. Omelets were always good for a post-shootout breakfast. 

If there was one thing he could never regret from his Pre-Death jaunt with Brucie and Dick was having Alfred teach him how to cook. Because god damn did Jason like to cook. Those hours with Alfie in the kitchen, the old butler gently showing him what spices went where, or how to stuff a chicken, those were some of his fondest memories from Before. They were also some of the least painful to think about, those years where he still believed that Bruce gave a flying fuck about him. 

God, sometimes Jason misses Robin. He misses flying through the air next to Bruce, his father, laughing every single night, the adrenaline that came with being small and lean and flipping across the rooftops of Gotham. He misses Dick, who had just started to become his big brother when the Joker blasted him to bits in a warehouse in Ethiopia after his own mother sold him out. He misses Bruce, gently calling him Jaybird, and he misses Babs, who was so, so proud of him when he could finally hack the GCPD database. 

But then he remembers crying out for each of them, hour after hour, as the Joker broke just about every bone in his body, and he remembers the pit in his stomach that grew once he realized that there was nobody coming to save him. He remembers the rage that coiled in his stomach when Bruce refused to kill the Joker, who blew him up, and instead left him for dead with a batarang sticking out of his body. 

Jason pulls himself back to his omelet before he can let himself get lost in the pit rage that has started to roll in his gut at the thought of Bruce and Dick and Babs and the Joker, and instead tries to focus his energy on solving the goddamn drug case. 

The rest of the day Jason spends trying to eliminate places the Angel Juice could definitely not some from, and trying to brainstorm something, anything, to help him out on this case. By seven, he’s no further than he was the night before, save for some half-brainstormed theories on where in the shipping chain the box of nails became a box of highly addictive drugs. 

With a groan, Jason shuts off his laptop and moves to go make dinner. He’s feeling like spaghetti tonight, so he gets busy making the meat sauce and does his best to ignore his growing despondency with the Angel Juice issue. Tonight, Jason’s feeling like a nice, cathartic, classic patrol. Bash some heads in, stop some rapists and muggings, shut down a few drug deals. 

It’s just when he’s thinking about how nice that all sounds that somebody starts to pound on his safehouse door.   
.  
.  
.  
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TIM

For the past three months, Tim has lived contentedly alone in Drake Manor with nothing but the weekly visits of the housekeeper, Mrs. Mac, to keep him company. And really, he’s fine with it. Because Tim would take three YEARS alone in Drake Manor, WITHOUT Mrs. Mac’s weekly visits, over his parents staying in Gotham for more than a month any day. 

Because when Jack and Janet Drake decide to prolong their stay in Gotham, it means they have business in Gotham. And Tim really really hates the type of business his parents do. 

But here they are, three weeks into their stay in Gotham and Tim has no idea when they’re going to leave again. 

When Jack and Janet are in town, it makes Tim’s life about 100x more difficult. For one, his nightly stalking sessions following around Batman and occasionally Nightwing and Black Bat become a rarity. Tim doesn’t like to think about what his parents would do if they found him sneaking out of the house to go climb around fire escapes in the middle of the night in order to take creepy stalker photos of Batman and his assorted vigilante crowd. 

For another thing, Tim is expected to constantly dress and act the part of Timothy Jackson Drake, future CEO of Drake Industries, heir to the Drake Estate, and son of the esteemed Mr. and Mrs. Jack Drake. For the months his parents are in Libya or Switzerland or Chile or wherever, Tim is content to slip around the house like a ghost, eating in his bedroom and only ever wearing sweats or jeans or very occasionally, khaki shorts. The slacks and jackets and polo shirts that his parents have him wear constantly under penalty of no meals are intensely uncomfortable, and what kind of kid wears pressed pants to high school?

Most importantly, though, would probably be the massive drug trafficking ring that Tim is definitely not supposed to know his parents created and run. 

Look, Tim may be small and young and a little naïve, but he is certainly not stupid. In fact, he’s two grades ahead in school and could probably already have his diploma, if he was keen on having that kind of pressure placed upon him by his mom and dad. 

Tim has crunched the numbers a dozen times, by hand and by calculator and by a computer program he wrote himself-Drake Industries does not put out the profits that it does by anything happening above the board. There’s just no way. When he was about nine, just before he figured out who Batman and Robin #1 really were, he brough his spreadsheets to him mom and asked where the extra money came from. 

He wasn’t permitted to leave his room for a week, and Janet Drake told him, very clearly, that he was never, ever, ever to speak of the extra funds again, and to drop his “foolish crusade.”

Of course, being Tim Drake, Boy Genius, he decidedly did not drop his foolish crusade. First, of course, he had to figure out where in the world all that extra profit was even coming from, and the best place to learn that was directly from the source: Jack Drake’s “100% OFF LIMITS, Timothy” work computer. Thus, Tim Drake, Boy Detective, was born. 

The next time his parents left, this time for a two month jaunt around East Asia, Tim spent every single day in the Gotham Public Library after school without fail, reading every single book, manual, and textbook available on computer science. This is how he met sixteen-year-old Barbara “call me Babs” Gordon, who was quite possibly the world’s greatest library volunteer. 

A month in to Tim’s quest for computer science knowledge, while trying to figure out exactly how to get around a certain firewall, Barbara sat down right next to him and smoothly showed him that he knew practically nothing when it came to the world of hacking things. Absolutely in awe, of course, Tim begged her to teach him everything she knew and…she did! 

So next time Tim’s parents were in town, he was prepared. From his own computer, Tim broke right into his dad’s laptop using all of the tricks that Babs had taught him and very swiftly learned a lot more than he had ever wanted to about drugs. But Timmy idolized Batman and Robin, both Dick Grayson and Jason Todd of course, and there was no way he ever wanted to run his parents’ drug business when he was older. 

This is the point at which Tim Drake, Boy Hero was born. So for three and a half years, Tim has collected every scrap of evidence there was against his parents, saved his files onto a dozen flash drives he has hidden around Gotham, and even locked paper copies of all of the photos, emails, documents, and spreadsheets in two hidden lockboxes that he continuously adds to. 

It is when Tim is doing his routine checks of the money his parents are reeling in from selling various opioids that he realizes profits are way way higher than they usually are. So Tim digs. And digs. And digs some more. What he finds eventually makes him sick. 

His parents have somehow synthesized a new drug, one building off of heroin, using money and resources from Drake Industries. It’s called Angel Juice, and so far, for the three months that it’s been around, it has killed over 200 people. Tim wants to throw up a little. God, how could his mom and dad do this? How could they? 

He makes copies of everything. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever been so meticulous in his evidence collection. Every single scrap of information, no matter how unrelated, gets downloaded, copied, printed, and saved to a flash drive. Tim has never really done anything about his parents before. 

He hasn’t. Sometimes, he’ll leave files with information on their buyers and distributors, or gangs picking up the drug, or where they’re getting shipped to for Commissioner Gordon to find and fix, but it’s never against his actual parents, just smaller pieces further down the line. For whatever reason, he’s never been able to bring himself to turn them in, though he certainly has enough to get them stuck in Blackgate for life. Whatever type of sad, convoluted loyalty to Jack and Janet Drake he has is very quickly diminishing as Tim reads the tox reports on overdose victims of the Angel Juice. His parents made this stuff. His parents are responsible for the 200+ lives that have been taken in the past month. The numbers are rising quickly, too. 

But that is going to change, tonight. Because Tim really cannot stand by and watch his parents’ greed bring about the collapse of Gotham. He just won’t let it happen. So when he hears the door to his parents’ room close around midnight, Tim slips out of bed and pulls on jeans and a dark hoodie, pockets a brand new flash drive, and climbs out of his window like he used to back when he had a nanny. 

It’s a long bike ride from Bristol into the heart of Gotham, but it’s one Tim has made many times. He knows exactly where Batman is going to be tonight, from years and years of deducing his patrol routes and tracking his movements. Nightwing is in Bludhaven until the weekend, Black Bat is in Hong Kong for the foreseeable future, and Spoiler hasn’t been seen in months. It’s only Batman tonight.

Tim parks himself on his chosen rooftop and waits, carefully studying the skyline. He didn’t even bring his camera tonight, and the lack of the familiar weight around his neck is making him jumpy. Or that might be the fact that he’s about to completely betray his parents. He hasn’t really thought about what he’s going to say to Batman tonight. I mean, it isn’t like he can just say “Hey Batman! It’s me, Tim Drake, your neighbor! I know exactly who you are so please trust me when I say my parents are running a drug trafficking ring! Cool! See ya around I guess!” Tim’s pretty certain he would get his mind wiped or something. 

He doesn’t really have time to ponder it though, before a black shadow briefly blocks the light coming from the window of an apartment building not far off. He’s here. Tim pops out from behind the A/C unit he was leaning against and stands right in the middle of the roof just as Batman lands on the ledge. 

“Um…” Tim says eloquently. 

Batman stops, standing right in front of Tim and holy crap he is so much taller up close. Tim can feel his heart drop to his feet and all of a sudden his palms are sweating and his stomach is doing flips. Tim doesn’t really like tall men standing in front of him like this, focusing their attention on him. Tim doesn’t like that at all, and he knows, logically, that this is Bruce Wayne, who has three kids and who always smiles so warmly at him at the galas he’s dragged to, he knows that this is not Jack Drake with his fists and his belt and the wooden spoon, but he can’t get his trembling hands to stay still. 

“It’s too late for children to be out. Go home.” Batman growls at Tim, face fixed into a disapproving frown and this is not how this was supposed to go at all. His knees are shaking now. 

“N-no wait! Wait! Um…Batman…I um…I have a flash drive for you!” The frown has deepened into something halfway to a scowl and Tim just wants to cry, okay? Robin has (had?) always been his hero, but he looked up to Batman too. He shouldn’t be afraid of him, but Tim hasn’t felt comfortable around adults since he was like, five, and being locked in his room without dinner didn’t make enough of an impression for the lesson to stick, Timothy. 

“Go. Home.” Bru-Batman’s voice is firm and low and dangerous. “Kids shouldn’t play detective.”

“N-no please! No Batman! Really, it’s important! It’s about…um…” but Batman is already on the next rooftop over, cape fluttering in the night, and Tim is left standing shaky-legged on a rooftop alone, the flash drive still sitting heavily in his pocket. Shit. 

The next morning Tim wakes up to his mother rapping on his door thirty minutes earlier than he’s due down for lunch, and Tim’s stomach sinks. 

Last night, he had crawled, defeated, back through his window, tossed his clothes back into the corner of his closet where everything but the slacks and jackets and polos got shoved during his parents’ rare visits home, washed the stink of the Gotham downtown out of his hair, and stuffed the flash drive in his box spring until he could figure out what to do about it. 

It wasn’t like he could just stuff the evidence in Bruce Wayne’s mailbox, he’d be busted for sure, and then Mr. Wayne would phone his mom and dad and he would never be allowed to leave his bedroom again. And if he dropped it all off for Commissioner Gordon, it would take weeks and weeks before his parents could ever be arrested, and they would have fled the country by then easily, leaving Tim behind in the big empty house, probably forever. 

But right now, Janet Drake was rapping on his door insistently, shouting-without-shouting for him to get out of bed, dress himself, and meet in his father’s study promptly. Tim very nearly fell face first on his carpet in his haste to get out of bed. 

“Yes mother! I’ll be there in a minute!” he called back frantically before she could come into his room and see what a disheveled mess he was. She responded with a huff of air, and Tim could hear her heels click back down the hallway. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Tim pulled on a pair of pressed pants and a polo shirt and combed his hair at record speed, sliding his feet into a pair of socks because “dignified children should never stroll around the house barefoot, Timothy.” He walked as fast as he dared down the stairs to his dad’s study and paused outside of the closed door, knocking properly.

“You can enter, Timothy.” That was his dad’s rough drawl, pushing the “thy” sound of his name through his teeth. Tim could feel his heart beating erratically. His palms were starting to sweat. God no, he’ll kill me if my palms are sweaty. Tim wiped his hands on the inside of his shirt and pushed the door open, stepping into the dimly-lit room. 

Jack and Janet Drake were seated at his dad’s desk. There was an empty chair next to his mom. She turned to face him and her lip curled up, like a shark. Janet Drake could smell fear, he was fairly certain. Tim stopped next to the chair and his dad nodded to him. Tim took his seat, doing his absolute best to stop his leg from bouncing, his hands from trembling. 

Jack gazed at him disdainfully, Janet had her usual air of disapproval. Did they know? Tim thought frantically. How could they know already? 

“Place your hands above the desk, Timothy, it makes you seem much more trustworthy,” was the first thing that his mom said to him. Tim obeyed, folding his hands pleasantly on the wood of the desk. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

Jack’s lips turned down into a frown. “Timothy, do you know why we’ve summoned you here?” His dad asked, cold and robotic. Because I’m your son and you’ve decided you finally love me? He wants to ask. He doesn’t, of course, at the risk of a broken arm. 

“No.” He says instead. Jack’s eyes narrow and Tim realizes his mistake too late. He’s out of practice. Tim can feel his stomach doing somersaults. 

“No sir.” His dad’s hands curl briefly into fists. Crap, this hasn’t started well. 

“No sir, father.” Janet sighs. 

“Well, Timothy, if you showed any initiative at all, you would know that Drake Industries has seen a significant increase in profits.” His dad starts and Tim thinks, yeah, from the freaking Angel Juice! At the cost of over 200 people already! Jack continues after a brief pause. “This is thanks to a new project that our biochemical department has developed and is improving upon.”

Tim doesn’t really like where this is going very much. He risks a glance to the side at his mom, who is wearing a mask of perfectly polite disinterest. It’s the face she makes during a risky business transaction, her perfect Janet Drake poker face. Tim’s gut roils. Tim nods along to whatever his father is saying, trying to ignore the bile in his throat. 

“-and as you would know, as a young scholar, human test subjects are becoming increasingly pricey, and the legal hoops are a nightmare.” Jack is going on and on, and Tim can feel himself paling. “-and wouldn’t you be so interested in participating in the family business, Timothy? Finally starting to pay back your debts to your mother and I?” 

Jack is waiting expectantly, so Tim chokes out a rough sounding “Yes sir, of course.” His dad’s face turns stony and Tim tries not to flinch. 

“Timothy, why does your tone suggest that you’re lying to me?” Jack asks, eyes dangerous. “Are you implying that helping to further the research of Drake Industries is something that you wouldn’t be inclined to partake in?” One eyebrow raises, and Tim tries so hard not to shake, he really does, but a tremor runs through his hands and Jack sees, of course Jack sees. 

His dad has his arms locked in his viselike grip in seconds. Jack is standing now, towering over both Tim and Janet, but mostly Tim. Janet is inspecting her nail polish. 

“N-no S-sir, I, I would be s-so honored to participate in the, uh, research. S-sir.” Well, it was worth a shot. Jack wrenches Tim forward and drags him around the desk, pulling him up by his shirt now. He can’t even meet his dad’s eyes. He’s going to have bruises where his dad’s hands were on his arms, and it’s summer. They’re going to suck to have to cover. 

“Now Timothy, as a future CEO, you would think you would make an effort to sound a little more convincing, hmm?” Tim can feel his eyes going wide with an unfortunate rush of fear, and then his head is snapping to the side, the loud smack resounding through the room. Jack sneers at him. “You are to go to your bedroom. In a half hour, Dr. Collins from the biomedical division will be here to test the new strain of our little project on you. I expect you to be presentable and in the foyer to greet him in exactly twenty-five minutes. Am I understood?”

It is all Tim can do not to squeak as he says a final “Yes, sir” and makes the fastest possible retreat to his bedroom. Crap, crap, crap!

His parents want to test the effects of the Angel Juice on him now! Tim had read their files last night while compiling his flash drive, they wanted to focus their efforts more on the homeless children of Crime Alley and the Bowery, so of course they needed a strain that created the ultimate high for a minor, with a less developed nervous system. 

Tim can barely see straight as he crumples to a heap behind his door, his breath coming in short gasps. His parents are going to drug him. It takes him ten minutes to calm down, and Tim has no idea what to do. Nightwing is in Bludhaven, Black Bat in Hong Kong, Spoiler MIA, and Batman told him to go home, Batman thinks he’s some goofy fanboy.

Well, there is one other vigilante he could visit. 

His Robin. Jason Todd. The Red Hood. The back-from-the-dead hero-turned-kind-of-hero who ran Crime Alley. Tim knows his patrol routes too, his safe houses, his schedule. Of course he does. Jason Todd was his Robin. And he doesn’t exactly have very many other options. 

So Tim shoves all of his printed data and his flash drive into a backpack, pulls on jeans and a T-shirt, and climbs out the window with five minutes to spare before the doctor was due. He was supposed to be in the foyer. He has to go, as fast as possible, right now, before his mom or dad come looking for him. 

Tim tosses his bag over his shoulder, slides his shoes on (Converse, not the god-awful loafers his dad constantly insisted on) and climbs out the window, shimmying down the trim and drain pipe and windowsills faster than he ever has before. Dr. Collins is ringing the doorbell, and Tim bolts to the end of the driveway where his bike sits in the bushes. He can hear the door opening, can hear his mother’s shout of “Timothy JACKSON Drake” but he doesn’t stop, just leaps onto his bike and pedals as hard as he possibly can. 

Four hours later, Tim shifts from foot to foot at the base of the Red Hood’s apartment building. Technically it is one of five apartment buildings, two warehouses, and one office space, but this is the safehouse that Jason Todd is currently occupying, Tim’s certain of it. He’d better be, since he ditched his bike three miles away and ran across the roofs to get here in an effort to lose his parents and their “employees.” 

Tim suddenly isn’t feeling quite so confident in his plan, but he’s out of options, so he hikes up his bag and steps inside the building. There’s nobody in the small hallway and the elevator is empty as well, with does a little bit to curve Tim’s unease. The Red Hood was dangerous, volatile, prone to shoot first and ask questions later. 

However, Tim thinks, as he presses the button for the top floor, the Red Hood is notorious for being protective of Gotham’s children. He’s never hurt a kid beyond a couple of bruises, and Tim is really hoping that he doesn’t accidently become an exception to the rule as he rides the elevator upwards. 

His palms are sweating by the time the short ride upwards ends and Tim really, really hopes he doesn’t get shot. He heads towards the end of the hallway, pauses before the final room, and without giving himself time to chicken out, taps his knuckles against the door with far more firmness than he feels capable of exuding.   
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	2. Chapter 2 (Jason)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow you guys, all of the incredibly kind comments have blown me away! I was going to wait a week, but I've written pretty far ahead, and I'm just so excited, so I'm posting Chapter 2! 
> 
> Just a few minor notes:  
> In this fic, I've bent the ages around a bit, because I needed Tim to be younger, but Jason to still be detoxed and reasonable. Also, you may have notice that Jason's relationship with Dick and Damian actually...exists. Well, Tim was never Robin, and where Bruce got Damian, he isn't Robin either. Jason never felt replaced, and he never attacked a member of the family as harshly as he did Tim, so his relationship with Dick never got totally trashed. He avoids them, doesn't really wanna hang around them at all, but it's mildly civil. Also, Cass is here, just in Hong Kong!

Jason freezes as soon as he hears the knock on the door, tensing. He turns the stove burner off, just in case, grabs his gun, and approaches the door cautiously. Dick, Bruce, Cass, or even Damian would just come in through the window if for whatever reason they decided to pay him a visit, to try and fight him or tell him to come home or whatever. 

Nobody even has this address (though he was at least 97% sure that Babs knew every single safehouse he had, being the supergenius she was) save for Roy, Kori, and Dick (that last one was most definitely not on purpose, however). 

So is it a lost neighbor? Someone trying to initiate a kidnapping? Is it the League? 

Whoever is on the other side of the door knocks again, a touch more insistently. “Um…if you’re in there…uh, could you open the door? Please?” The voice on the other side is soft, hesitant. If this is some kinda trap it’s a diversion tactic, and not a super great one either. So Jason slaps on a domino mask, cocks his gun, and swings the door open. 

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put a bullet through your skull.” 

The person standing in the hallway is in no way, shape, or form what Jason was expecting. 

The kid flinches back immediately and raises his hands, cowering, as if he could possibly get any tinier, because Jesus Christ, this kid is Small, capital S. He’s drowning in a black shirt and he probably only comes up to Jason’s chest. Jesus, it’s like a kitten swaddled in a towel. 

“P-please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me!” The kid squeaks. Jason keeps the gun pointed at him, but loosens his finger on the trigger. 

The kid looks familiar. Longish black hair hanging in his face, pale as shit, shaking like a leaf, big ass backpack clutched in his hands. And holy fucking shit, this kid is Timothy-fucking-Drake, his ex-fucking-neighbor! 

“The fuck are you doing here, shortstack?” Jason grunts, mainly out of lack of anything else to say to mask his surprise. He lets his eyes wander to the backpack in the kid’s hands. “Running away from home?”

The kid-Timothy?-lets out a high pitched nervous chuckle at that that he cuts off almost immediately. Jason frowns. “I, ah…I brought…evidence?” Jason almost misses it. “Are you…will…are you gonna shoot me if I open my bag?” Timothy practically squeaks. He can see the kid’s legs wobbling a little, and his eyes are so wide and earnest, like fucking Bambi or something. 

And then Jason finally notices the bruises. A massive handprint on the right side of his face, bruises circling his wrists, and Jason has to take a deep breath before he starts to see green. He uncocks the gun, flips the safety on, and tucks it into his waistband, half to not accidently squeeze the trigger out of anger and half because Jesus, the kid looked younger than the Demon Brat and probably weighed 80 pounds soaking wet. 

Jason grunts. Timothy takes it as a yes and slowly unzips his bag. It is absolutely stuffed with paper. He clears his throat, pulls out a stack of spreadsheets, and hands them to Jason. Jason grunts again. 

“Fuck is this, kid? This look like an office?” But he glances down at the papers, brow furrowing. 

“N-no Mr….Hood. Sorry, I just…it’s just…” 

“Well, spit it out shortstack.”

“It’s just…mymomanddadarerunningadrugtraffickingring.” Jason nearly chokes, eyes flying back down to the spreadsheets. Annual profits of Drake Industries. Jesus Christ. 

“Ooookay Kiddo. Why ah,” Jason glances behind him. There’s nothing to give up his identity and besides, Jason Todd has been publicly dead for three years now. “Why don’t you come inside?”

Timothy looks confused as fuck, and honestly? Kind of adorable. His little face scrunches up and his eyes flicker back and forth between Jason and the apartment behind him. 

“What’s your name?” Of course he knows it’s the Drake kid, but ya know. Secret identity. 

“Um…Tim. Drake. Tim Drake.” Jason nods and steps backwards, back into his safehouse. He’s not entirely sure if this is the drug ring that he’s working on right now or some other one, but if Tim’s entire bag is filled with evidence like the spreadsheets, it’s worth burning the safehouse for. 

Plus, Jason thinks to himself as the kid meekly shuffles forward, somebody really needs to feed this child. Jason doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone so tiny. And seriously, “Christ kid, how old are you?” Tim flinches backwards and for a moment all Jason is able to focus on is the fucking handprint on his fucking face. He really can’t be older than eleven, and even that’s a stretch. 

“Uh, thirteen.” Is what Timmy says though and Jason would have blanched if not for the extensive training on schooling his features. 

“Timmy,” Jason starts as he moves back into the kitchen and turns the stove back on. “Do you like spaghetti?” And wow, okay, he really hadn’t expected himself to be saying that but here he is, and the kid is like seven sizes too small for his age with a bag full of what is probably at least semi-helpful evidence. 

“Y…yeah?” Jason grins and adds garlic to the sauce on the stove before turning back around and leaning against the counter, arms crossed 

“Okay. So wanna start by telling me how the hell you found my fucking safehouse?” Timmy flinches again and he winces internally. Right, okay. He can handle children. Be gentle, right? 

The kid shuffles his feet, bites his lip, glances down. “I uh, I just kinda…” He mutters something unintelligibly. 

“Can you say that again? Couldn’t hear ya.” Tim wipes his palms on his pants and looks away again. 

“I uh, I tracked your patrol routes? And um, the pattern just kinda had these…points? So I looked into the discrepancies and used, uh, process of elimination to find the apartment number. Like, I just looked into the tenants…” He trails off, fidgeting, still clutching the open backpack. 

And that’s certainly worrying. Because if some thirteen-year-old kid can figure out his network of safehouses, then who can’t? How many of them does he even know about? Jason runs a frustrated hand through his hair and pushes air through his nose harshly. Fuck. 

Tim looks up at him, eyes wide with frantic concern. “Don’t worry! Oh god, that didn’t sound good! No, uh, it took me like a whole year and a half! I…” And now he’s blabbering about having to write his own computer program to analyze Jason’s patrol routes, and some complicated-sounding probability math, and holy hell, where did this kid even learn any of this?

Jason holds up a hand because now Timmy is working himself into a state, and if his eyes get any wider they might just pop outta his head. “S’okay Timmy, ‘m not mad.”

Tim breaths an obvious sigh of relief, and geez, Jason just wants to wrap him in a blanket and give him hot chocolate, his hands are shaking so bad. He clears his throat. “Okay, so about this drug ring…?” Tim nods, and fishes a thumb drive out from the bottom of his bag. 

“I brought, um, paper copies of everything too, but it’s all on here.” Tim drops the drive into Jason’s open hand for inspection. “It’s uh, my parents started it. They run it, uh, through Drake Industries. That’s how they’re funding it.” 

Now, Tim points to the spreadsheets. “I uh, tracked the profits. Of Drake Industries. I realized they make a lot more than they should, but uh, about three months ago, the extra money they were making went like, way up.” 

Jason glances at the papers that he set on the counter. Timmy’s got all of the expenses of the tech company mapped out meticulously, all of the inputs and outputs organized into hundreds of neat little boxes. 

Tim continues, now procuring what looks like a stack of emails held together by a binder clip. “I don’t really know how long they’ve been trafficking drugs, but it’s been at least four years. But uh, three months ago, they used the biochemical department as a front to synthesize a new drug. Like, they actually created it, instead of just buying and trafficking.” 

Jason grabs the stack of messages and flips through them. All emails from Jack and Janet Drake. There are dozens of names, all of these people discussing the creation and sale of the drug. Jason can’t stop his eyes from widening behind the lens of his domino. Tim doesn’t know how big of a deal this is yet, he has no clue that the Red Hood has been working on this for a month and doesn’t have a fifth of the info contained in just one of the dozens of messages he’s looking at now. There’s names, locations, sources. 

“So, it’s an opioid? Uh, similar to heroin. It’s called Angel Juice, and like, a lot of people are dying.” Tim shuffles his feet and pulls out another binder-clipped bundle, and holy shit-on-a-stick, he even has pictures! Jason whistles. 

“Damn, Kiddo. This is fantastic! Where’d you get all these pictures?” He flips through the prints, more than a little awed at the detective skills his ex-neighbor has. He would have made a damn good Robin, Jason thinks, especially if somebody fed him a little more. 

Timmy looks down, a blush creeping up to his cheeks. “I took them. The uh, the pictures. Um,” He inches closer to Jason slowly, and points out a man in the top photo. “That’s uh, Jack Drake. My dad. He’s kinda…he runs the whole thing.” Jason can practically see Tim closing in on himself, voice growing even quieter (if possible) and shoulders hunching, and boy oh boy, does he hate Jack Drake already. 

Jason’s dying to ask him if that’s the man who gave him the bruises on his arms and face, but Timmy’s skittish enough as it is and he would probably drop the bag and bolt, so instead Jason hums and turns back to stir the tomato sauce, giving himself a second to force the green haze to recede. 

Jason lifts his chin towards the coffee table in front of the couch behind Tim and says, in a carefully neutral voice, “Why don’t you set all that evidence on the table so I can look through it all after dinner?” Timmy jerkily nods and starts stacking the contents of his bag on the coffee table, making sure every stack was neat and tidy. Jason turned away again (what was the kid gonna do, try and kidnap him?) and started boiling a pot of water for the pasta. 

“So uh, Timmy, not that I’m not appreciative, but why not bring this stuff to the Bats?” He asks, mainly for sake of conversation. Timbo’s already freaked out enough as it is, and an awkward silence probably wouldn’t help that. Plus, curiosity. Brucie and Dickwad have always been the golden boys. 

Tim blushes again and bites his lip. “I…I did. Go to Batman. I, uh, intercepted him on his patrol. He told me to go home. Plus,” and now Tim looks up at him, entire face beet red. “Plus, the Red Hood is, er, YOU are, more effective at shutting down the drug rings? And the majority of the Angel Juice is being sold to kids in Crime Alley now, and you’ve kinda got a reputation for protecting kids? So it just…made sense?”

Jason feels a fierce swell of pride. He had worked hard, ever since returning to Gotham after his detox, to turn the Red Hood into a symbol that he could be proud of, that people could count on to keep them safe. And a (not very) small part of himself was thrilled that the kid thought the Red Hood was doing better than Batman. And also… “Wait, Timbo. You intercepted Batman on his patrol? What?”

Tim scratches at the back of his neck nervously, still bright red. Geez, the kid’s practically an open book. “I mean…you aren’t the only one I mapped? Um, every other Tuesday he always crosses over this one rooftop because the ones surrounding it are way to tall for a grapple gun, so…I just hung out? Um, he said I shouldn’t have been out so late and ran off though.” 

Jason grins and moves to pull two plates out of the cabinet. “Well, all the better for me, then, Timbers.” And seriously, thank god Bruce was such an assbag sometimes, because the kid had literally solved the entire drug case for him. 

Tim stood awkwardly behind him as Jason plated up two helpings of spaghetti and meat sauce, and then trailed after him towards the rickety table in the corner. Jason sat down and began to eat without preamble, and after a moment, Tim hesitantly slid into his chair too. 

He remembered being a small, scared 12-year-old in Wayne Manor, with a bunch of new, rich people constantly telling him that it was okay to do things, to want things, to eat when he was hungry and sleep when he was tired. He remembers how he never really believed it until watching Dick and Bruce and even Alfred just get up and eat, no fuss, nothing said, just at random intervals of the day. And sure, the Drakes were rich as fuck, they lived in goddamn Bristol, but the Drakes also rand a drug trafficking ring and probably hit their kid, so Jason can’t imagine it’s exactly a healthy, safe environment for a kid. Especially a kid as small and sweet and adorable as Timmy. 

And speaking of Timmy, the kid is trying his absolute best to not stuff his face completely and it’s so freaking cute. He is making such an effort to uphold some semblance of table manners, but it’s kind of obvious that the kid is starving. 

Jason tries really hard not to smirk at this, and puts on a show of eating messily and greedily, in hopes that Tim will copy him. “So,” he starts around a mouthful of pasta, “How long have you been stalking me n’ the bats?” 

Tim swallows, and (you guessed it) flushes red again. Jason’s starting to think ‘embarrassed’ is his permanent state. “I…uh,” he wipes his mouth, and Jason is pleased to see that his hands have completely stopped shaking. “I…it’s kinda embarrassing.” 

Jason offers him a small smile, and Tim continues. “When I was like, seven, I started following Batman and Robin around at night. And, um, I really didn’t have much else to do, so every night I just…recorded their patrols.” 

And Christ-on-a-cracker, seven?! Seven years old? Well then that explains how Tim was able to pinpoint Jason’s safehouse(s?), and, now that he thinks about it, figure out which one he was at. “Uh huh. So when’d you start stalking me?” 

Tim ducks his head and smirks, a small, subtle thing, but it feels like a victory. “Well, uh, back before you kinda vanished for a few months, I mainly just tried to get a general idea of like, your territory, I guess. But I didn’t start really mapping your routes and safehouses and such until you showed up again and started like, protecting kids and stuff.” Jason raises an eyebrow and stuffs more spaghetti in his mouth. 

So Timbo definitely knew about more than just this safehouse, and geez is it gonna be a bitch to relocate all of his hideouts, and also, apparently figured out that there was a difference in his MO before and after his detox with the Outlaws. 

“That’s pretty smart, Kid.” Is what he says instead of all that because nobody really enjoys being psychoanalyzed. 

Tim offers him a small smile. “Thanks, Mr. Hood.” Jason grunts, and grimaces. He’s only seventeen. 

“You can, uh, drop the Mister part, Timbo. Just Hood is fine, I don’t bite.” 

Tim already has more spaghetti in his mouth, so he just nods in response, looking a whole lot more at ease than he was when he was cowering outside of the apartment door. 

“D’you track Nightwing too then, even if he’s based in Bludhaven now?” Tim brightens and nods, shoving more pasta into his mouth. 

“Uh, yeah, once he stopped being Robin I kept tabs on Nightwing too, and I know how Batman changes his patrol routes when he’s in town, but I can’t exactly ride my bike to Bludhaven, y’know?” Jason chuckles at that, and is also struck once again by how freaking brilliant this kid has to be, to figure all of this out. 

“So you figured out that Robin and Nightwing were one and the same, then?” 

And now Timmy’s actually grinning, not just tiny little lip twitches. “I mean,” he starts, swallowing down his spaghetti, “they weren’t exactly subtle about it. Plus, Robin #2 fought totally different than Robin #1.”

Oh? “Oh? How so? Y’know, I wasn’t exactly in the scene back then.” Says Jason, 100% out of curiosity. He never really wondered what people thought when he took over Dick’s mantle. I mean, he dyed his hair to look more like him, and Bruce taught him all the same signature Robin moves, but there was no way he could ever master the same smooth flips and twists that Dick could do in the air. 

“Oh, y’know, the new Robin was stronger and bulkier than the old one. Like, the first Robin had to rely on tricky moves and backflips and stuff to fight criminals, but the new Robin was more straightforward. Also, he made way less terrible puns.” And okay, decidedly not was Jason was expecting. He almost lets his noodles slide right off the fork in surprise. 

Honestly, he was kinda waiting for ‘oh yeah, the newer Robin was boring’ or ‘the new Robin was angry’ or even ‘the new Robin wasn’t nearly as good as the old one,’ but it certainly wasn’t this. And if Timbo can shock him even more, he continues and says, “Y’know, the second one was my favorite.” 

Jason would have fallen out of his chair if Timmy had said that to thirteen-year-old him, but he coughs and recovers. “Why’s that?” he very nearly wheezes. 

“Oh, he just made me feel safer.” Tim says casually, continuing to eat as if he hadn’t just dropped an emotional nuclear bomb on Jason’s head. He just hums in response to that, because if he tried to actually speak he’s pretty certain it would come out a strangled mess. He doesn’t ask any more Batman-related questions for the rest of dinner, for fear of having a stroke or something. 

Ten minutes later, Jason polishes off his pasta and stretches back in the chair with a groan, back popping. He was looking forward to patrol tonight, so even though he really needs to focus on going through all the evidence that Timmy has gifted him, maybe he can spend an hour or two, just working on small, street-level crimes instead of bigger busts. He’ll run the first half of his route before turning in to read through the stacks and stacks of papers and photos from the kid. 

Timmy polishes off the last few noodles on his plate and then looks unsure of what to do. Jason stands and grabs both of their plates before his hands start trembling again and moves to wash the dishes in his tiny little sink. 

“Hey Timbo,” Jason lightly tosses him the thumb drive. “Do you wanna hook this up and open the most important files for me?” 

His face lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree, eyes all wide and shining. “Seriously?” He breathes, catching the drive and staring at Jason with awe. Before he can pull a Tim and start blushing, Jason directs him to his desk and boots the computer up. 

“If you go fishing around in my system, I’ll know.” He grumbles, although in all honesty, Timmy could probably take over his entire server in ten minutes flat and have Jason none the wiser. Christ, this probably isn’t his most well thought out idea of the day, but Tim looks like he’s gonna start crying from excitement, and if he was gonna try and take down the Red Hood, spilling the beans on a massive drug operation would not be a very good first move. 

So instead of worrying about it, Jason scrubs the pots he used and dries the plates and starts trying to think about the best way to take the Drakes down. And oh shit, he realizes. Is he really gonna try and kill Timbo’s parents?

He glances over his shoulder at the boy, who is carefully opening and lining up random files in what is probably a very helpful and easy-to-understand pattern, and starts to think that maybe Bruce had some kind of good idea about tossing people in Blackgate instead of putting a bullet through their skull. 

And then he remembers all of the kids he knows, found pumped full of Angel Juice laying dead behind dumpsters, and he thinks about the purple-red handprint on Tim’s face, and okay yeah, it’s gonna take more than one night for him to change his entire philosophy. 

Once he’s put the dishes away, Jason slowly plods across the room, making sure to walk a little louder than usual, lest he startle Tim, and leans around the boy in his computer chair to get a good look at the files open on the screen. Tim glances up at him and offers a tiny little grin, one that somehow makes him seem even younger than he already looks. 

“Okay, so the spreadsheets and order forms and documents that deal almost entirely in numbers are over here,” Timmy waves the cursor over a group of open windows. “I’ve color coded those types red, to make them easier to find, and they’re all labeled like this,” Tim launches into an explanation and walkthrough of his entire filing system, complete with numbered tags by importance, color and label by document type, a highlighting system identifying different types of information, and even tags attached to each group. 

It makes Jason miss having someone like Babs on his side, and shit, this is the easiest research is ever going to be. Tim’s entire face is animated too, excited, his hands are waving and gesturing and his grin is getting bigger with every passing second. 

“Timbo, this is fantastic!” Jason tells him, because it IS, and with the expression that he makes, you would think Jason just handed him tickets to Disney World. And because the kid deserves it, and because this is gonna save him actual, literal hours of sifting through documents, he gushes over the organization system that Timmy is clearly so proud of and reaches over to ruffle the kid’s hair. 

Timmy freezes the minute Jason touches him, and all he can think is ‘shit shit shit I fucked up’ but then the kid just melts against his hand, and all Jason wants to do is sweep him into a hug, and then maybe go find Jack and Janet Drake and introduce them to his fists. 

But Jason does kinda have a reputation to uphold as the fearsome Red Hood (though he’s pretty sure that was shot sometime between inviting the kid into his goddamn safehouse and feeding him spaghetti) and if he hugged him, Tim would probably just short-circuit completely, but the soft look he sends Timmy’s way says enough anyways. 

Fuck, dude, if Dick could see him now, he’d probably never live it down. The minute his older brother discovered him capable of affection again, all hope of avoiding Dick Grayson, Hug Octopus would get thrown right out the window. 

Rather than dwell on his ongoing emotional crisis, Jason shoots Tim a casual “Thanks, Timbers” and moves so the kid can stand up. 

Tim fidgets and coughs awkwardly, glancing around. “Um, so, I should…probably…go.”

Jason almost wants to tell him to take the couch and stay the night, it’s dark out and it’ll take forever for him to get home and his parents are rotten assholes, but Tim’s probably already in enough shit for showing up here, and really, he just met the kid. Technically they’d shaken hands at a couple galas a lifetime ago, but that was Jason Todd, not the Red Hood, and he had patrol and research. 

“D’you need a ride back to Bristol?” He asks instead, stomach turning at the idea of this tiny little child wandering through Gotham at night, but then again, he was rich, he would probably call a cab. Timmy shakes his head anyways. 

“No, it’s okay.” They moved towards the door, but Jason stopped him before he could shuffle out. 

“Listen, Timbo, I won’t move all my safehouses yet, okay? Not until this is all over and the drug ring is down. So, ah, if you run into trouble, or something happens, come find me, yeah? Promise not to shoot ya.” It’s lighthearted, but he really does mean it. Sure, he totally owes Timmy for all the intel, but also who knew what kind of shit Jack and Janet would pull once Red Hood started closing in on them. 

The smile Tim gives him in response isn’t the thousand-watt grin he’d adopted just a few minutes ago, but it’s a smile, genuine, however small it is, and that’s something. Jason tries not to think about how in a couple of weeks when this is all over, Timmy’s probably gonna be shucked off to some foster family or absent great-aunt as the kid gives him a small wave and steps into the hallway.

“Thanks for the spaghetti, Hood. It was really, really good.” And Tim is walking away, empty backpack swinging in his grip, and Jason is closing the door behind him, and now he has an entire drug operation to topple to the ground. 

Jason shucks his sweatpants, suits up, and tries not to think about the tiny little genius grinning at him, mouth full of spaghetti, as he leaps out of his window and into the night. 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think so far! I'm still writing this, and willing to add things, so if there's any specific scenes you're dying to see at some point, leave them in the comments and I can try and fit them in the outline! After this, I'll be trying to post once a week, at least. Constructive criticism is always welcome!!


	3. Chapter 3 (Tim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody has shown such support for this fic and I cannot say how much I appreciate it! Again, if there are any specific scenes that y'all would like to see, or any ideas that you feel could be good for this story, leave them in the comments and I might be able to incorporate them! I hope I am finding a good balance between the canon characterization and the changes that the events in this fic would cause. Let me know what you think!! :)
> 
> (I am going to be trying to update every Sunday or Monday. I have plenty prewritten so I should be sticking to that for a while)

Tim’s knocked, he’s knocked and it was firm and loud and definitely easy enough to hear, but it’s been almost an entire minute, and the Red Hood still hasn’t come to the door. These apartments are small, tiny, even if he was grabbing weapons or covering his face, it’s been an entire minute. 

Tim wants to knock again, but he also really doesn’t want to piss off Jason Todd and get himself shot. But Tim has just spent hours trekking across Gotham, trying to avoid anyone who might be looking for him, and every extra minute is an extra chance for him to freak out and decide to leave, leaving Gotham’s citizens under the thumb of his parents. 

So Tim raises his fist and knocks again, insistently this time. He clears his throat and chokes out a few words, but where he wanted to sound confident and mature, he mainly just sounds like a terrified loser. “Um…if you’re in there…uh, could you open the door? Please?” 

He can hear a gun cocking behind the wood, and has time to think ‘oh that’s not good’ before the door is swinging open and he’s staring down the barrel of a gun, and the freaking Red Hood is standing in front of him in sweatpants and a domino mask. And he does NOT exactly look happy with Tim. 

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put a bullet through your skull.” The Red Hood growls at him, and holy cannoli, he’s big. Logically, Tim knows that the Red Hood is really seventeen-year-old Jason Todd-Wayne, only four years older than Tim himself, but right now, Logical Tim has vanished and he’s left staring up at a very angry, very murder-y vigilante with a gun pointed at his head. 

“P-please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me!” Tim practically whimpers. He isn’t doing a very good job on the don’t-sound-pathetic front, but maybe his pathetic-ness is working in his favor because Jason keeps the gun pointed at him, but loosens his finger on the trigger. 

Tim tightens his hands around the backpack that he’s clutching In an effort to mask the tremble, but this was Robin, this is the freaking Red Hood, he’s a literal detective, there’s no way he’s missed the fact that Tim’s vibrating like a hummingbird and absolutely cowering. If only his dad could see what he looked like now, scared out of his mind and doing an awful job of hiding it.  
“The fuck are you doing here, shortstack?” Is what the Red Hood grunts at him, and yeah, okay, his finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger on the gun anymore, so at least he’s probably not going to get shot. Small mercies. 

“Running away from home?” Is the second thing that Hood asks, glancing down at the backpack he’s holding. And isn’t that kinda exactly what he’s doing? At that, he accidently lets slip a nervous chuckle, but it sounds horrible and grating to even his own ears, so he chokes on it to stop. And the Red Hood is frowning at him now-ohmygodI’mgonnagetshot-so Tim steels himself to do what he came to do. 

“I, ah…I brought…evidence?” But crap, crap, crap, why can he not just speak up, even a little bit? “Are you…will…are you gonna shoot me if I open my bag?” Why is his mouth so dry? Why can’t he get his legs to stop shaking? Tim feels about ten seconds away from bursting into tears, and god, no wonder his parents can barely stand to look at him. 

The Red Hood stares at him for a few long seconds from behind the domino, and Tim’s legs feel like jello, but finally, he uncocks the gun, flips the safety on, and reaches behind himself to tuck it into his waistband, eyes never leaving Tim’s face. Tim still doesn’t move, until Jason grunts affirmatively and he can start to slowly unzip his bag. No sudden movements, he thinks to himself. 

Tim clears his throat, pulls out a stack of spreadsheets, and hands them to the Red Hood, hands shaking so badly it’s like he’s holding an industrial-grade power drill or something. Hood grunts again, but he takes the papers so that’s certainly a good sign, at least he doesn’t seem to think Tim’s got a bomb or anything. 

“Fuck is this, kid? This look like an office?” But he still looks down at the papers. His brow furrows, so Tim knows that at the very least, he’s glancing at some of the words on the top sheet. Still, Tim’s hands a sweaty and clammy and he doesn’t think that his heart is supposed to be going this fast. 

“N-no Mr….Hood. Sorry, I just…it’s just…” he stammers, and why can he not just SPEAK? Why couldn’t he’ve inherited his mother’s calm, collected confidence, her aura of total self-assurance? He wonders if Jason recognizes him, the boy next door. They’d shaken hands at galas before, and of course those moments were always so much more important to Tim than they could ever be to Jason. Just being in the same room as Robin gave him chills. 

“Well, spit it out shortstack.” Tim doesn’t really think he’s afraid anymore, just nervous, but that’s typical. After all, this is Robin. HIS Robin. His hero. How could he stay scared of someone who kept Gotham safe? Who is still keeping Gotham safe?

He steels himself, rehearses the words in his head, and then spits it out. “It’s just…mymomanddadarerunningadrugtraffickingring.” Ok, at this, the Red Hood is most certainly making a face, which means he somehow heard the words that Tim rapid-fired at him. 

“Ooookay Kiddo. Why ah,” Jason glances behind him, back into the safehouse. He probably is trying to keep his identity safe, because why would he ever suspect Tim of knowing who he was? If he hadn’t been so obsessive over Batman and Robin, and then Bruce, Dick, and Jason before Jason died and then somehow came back to life, way bigger and angrier than before, there was no way he could ever connect Crime Alley’s violent protector to the dead son of a billionaire. “Why don’t you come inside?”

…Tim did not expect that. He’s making his best effort to not just blurt out that he knows exactly who he is under the domino mask, and his brain is trying to process a million things at once, but now, the Red Hood is inviting him into his safehouse? What the heck?

“What’s your name?” Right. He should tell him that. The Wayne kids probably shook the hands of hundreds of other people at those galas, and he was just one little guest. 

“Um…Tim. Drake. Tim Drake.” Jason nods and steps backwards, back into his safehouse. Tim tries not to let his brain overload and shut down as he follows him forward into the apartment. 

“Christ kid, how old are you?” Ok, certainly a fair question, but it isn’t exactly relevant right now. 

“Uh, thirteen.” Jason gives him a carefully blank look, and Tim has no clue what the heck he’s thinking. Either of them, really. If only Tim was as good at deciphering his own emotions as he is at deciphering a computer code. 

“Timmy,” Jason starts as he moves into a small kitchen where a pot is sitting on the stove. He turns the burner on and faces Tim. Also, Timmy? Really? “Do you like spaghetti?” he doesn’t think he’s ever been this confused in his entire freaking life, seriously. 

“Y…yeah?” The Red Hood shoots him a smile and dumps something in the pot before facing him again. Probably still assessing whether or not he’s a threat. But why on earth is he asking him about food? Tim doesn’t really have any clue how the guy came back to life, or if he’s a zombie or what, but how many pieces got scrambled up in his brain? 

“Okay. So wanna start by telling me how the hell you found my fucking safehouse?” Tim flinches back. The change in conversation is giving him whiplash, and here Jason-freaking-Todd is, Robin, asking a question that could probably determine if he was gonna get shot or not tonight. 

He looks away from Hood’s face, really not prepared to tell him about how he’s quite literally been stalking him, and also that he knows his identity and all of his aliases. “I uh, I just kinda, uh, tracked your patrol routes.” If his mom were here, she’s smack him upside the head for mumbling so atrociously. 

“Can you say that again? Couldn’t hear ya.” Tim wipes his palms on his pants and looks away again, and how much could they possibly sweat?

“I uh, I tracked your patrol routes? And um, the pattern just kinda had these…points? So I looked into the discrepancies and used, uh, process of elimination to find the apartment number. Like, I just looked into the tenants…”Tim stops talking, because the Red Hood is staring at him and a wave of ‘holy crap I’m talking to Robin’ rushes through him, just like it used to at the galas. 

Jason runs a hand through his hair and makes some noise that’s halfway between a growl and a sigh, and Tim realizes how bad that sounds. Some kid figures out all of his activity, then who else could? Dang it, Tim’s going to have to retrace and remap all of his patrol routes and safehouses after this. 

“Don’t worry! Oh god, that didn’t sound good! No, uh, it took me like a whole year and a half! I didn’t just like step out on a roof and go ‘oh hey Red Hood came from over there, ok that’s a safehouse’ like I had to write and code this entire program on my computer, okay? And it took me a really long time, and I did it like three years ago not just specifically for you, and I had to go through all the individual data points and like merge them all together to find probability zones, you know? Like…like electron orbitals! Like orbitals, right? It took forever and it’s only because I had so much time and…”

Jason holds up a hand and Tim freezes, snaps his mouth shut, expecting to get chewed out, but instead, “S’okay Timmy, ‘m not mad.”

Tim’s embarrassed at how obviously relieved he is, but he doesn’t have time to wallow because the Red Hood says “Okay, so about this drug ring…?” Tim nods, gropes around at the bottom of his backpack until he unearths his flashdrive. 

“I brought, um, paper copies of everything too, but it’s all on here.” Tim drops the drive into Jason’s open hand for inspection, who has finally stopped looking at Tim in favor of turning the drive of information over in his hands. “It’s uh, my parents started it. They run it, uh, through Drake Industries. That’s how they’re funding it.” He winces, and is glad that the Red Hood didn’t see. 

Now, Tim points to the spreadsheets sitting on the counter. He can feel himself picking up speed a little bit, the nerves settling a bit, even though standing so close to Robin is making him giddy. “I uh, tracked the profits. Of Drake Industries. I realized they make a lot more than they should, but uh, about three months ago, the extra money they were making went like, way up.” 

The Red Hood turns his head away again (and staring into the white lenses of the red domino mask is making him even more jittery, so that’s definitely a good thing), staring at the spreadsheets some more. Tim shifts, wipes his hands on his pants and continues, pulling out all the emails and messages now, between his parents and various clients, suppliers, or employees. 

“I don’t really know how long they’ve been trafficking drugs, but it’s been at least four years. But uh, three months ago, they used the biochemical department as a front to synthesize a new drug. Like, they actually created it, instead of just buying and trafficking.” He tries to make sense, because if the Red Hood dismisses him like Batman did, he really doesn’t know who else to go to, besides Commissioner Gordon, but that would take forever, and there’s no telling how many more people would overdose and die. 

Jason starts to flick through the messages, brow furrowed, and Tim really wishes he knew what he was thinking right now. Ok, so domino masks were crappy identity-hiders, but this one sure was stopping Tim from getting any kind of a read at all on Hood. Jason doesn’t, so Tim keeps talking. 

“So, it’s an opioid? Uh, similar to heroin. It’s called Angel Juice, and like, a lot of people are dying.” Hundreds, he thinks, but honestly, the Red Hood probably already knows that, so he just pulls out a stack of photographs he secretly took instead of listing statistics. He’d had to hide on rooftops, fire escapes, behind dumpsters, and even in air vents to take these, and he still has the negatives stored away under his floorboards. The Red Hood lets out a low whistle. 

“Damn, Kiddo. This is fantastic! Where’d you get all these pictures?” That’s a good reaction, better than he was even really hoping for, so he ignores the fact that he just got called ‘Kiddo’ and lets himself relax a little as the Red Hood is shuffling the photographs. 

He looks down awkwardly as he feels blood rushing to his face to try and avoid having to face his mortification head-on. “I took them. The uh, the pictures. Um,” Tim carefully moves closer to the Red Hood, and he hasn’t been this close to Jason Todd since he was like, ten, and holy crap he’s really discussing a case with his absolute hero! 

“That’s uh, Jack Drake. My dad. He’s kinda…he runs the whole thing.” Tim points to his dad and sobers because this was never part of his childhood daydreams of detective work. He was never supposed to be working with Robin against his own parents, but he reminds himself that this is Red Hood, not Robin, and he wasn’t really working with him, just providing some tips. 

After stirring the pasta sauce (and really, what was going on there again?), the Red Hood directs him over to his coffee table to empty his bag. He’s feeling jumpy and disjointed, so to calm himself down he spends way more time than strictly necessary straightening and sorting his evidence. Relief is washing over him in waves, though, because the Red-freaking-Hood is listening to him! This is all gonna get fixed!

“So uh, Timmy, not that I’m not appreciative, but why not bring this stuff to the Bats?” Tim straightens and turns back to face the kitchen, where the Red-freaking-Hood is casually stirring a pot of pasta sauce. 

The blush is back again. “I…I did. Go to Batman. I, uh, intercepted him on his patrol. He told me to go home. Plus, plus, the Red Hood is, er, YOU are, more effective at shutting down the drug rings? And the majority of the Angel Juice is being sold to kids in Crime Alley now, and you’ve kinda got a reputation for protecting kids? So it just…made sense?”

He stammers out his explanation miserably, knowing full well that he’s barely making any sense, but Tim truly cannot bring himself to string together a more impressive sentence. The trembling is dying down, because its clear that Jason Todd isn’t mad at him, or angry, or planning on shooting him, but now he thinks he might be a little bit shell-shocked. I mean, he’s standing here, in his hero’s kitchen, HELPING him. 

“Wait, Timbo. You intercepted Batman on his patrol? What?”

There’s no way to play this off and not sound like a creepy stalker. “I mean…you aren’t the only one I mapped? Um, every other Tuesday he always crosses over this one rooftop because the ones surrounding it are way to tall for a grapple gun, so…I just hung out?” He thinks back to crouching behind the A/C unit. “Um, he said I shouldn’t have been out so late and ran off though.” 

The Red Hood is pulling a plate-no, TWO plates-out of his cabinet as he says, “Well, all the better for me, then, Timbers.” If Tim hadn’t stopped properly processing information a few minutes ago, he sure has now, because it really, seriously looks like Jason Todd is about to serve him dinner. 

Jason divided the pasta in two, and then spooned the meat sauce over both plates. It smelled pretty amazing. Tim tries to think back to the last time someone cooked a meal for him. When had Mrs. Mac last stayed an made him dinner? 

The Red Hood is setting both plates down at a small table, and there’s two chairs, two forks, two napkins. Jason just starts eating without saying a thing, shoveling food in his mouth faster than Tim would think humanly possible, and boy, does the pasta smell good. Well, even on the off chance that he isn’t supposed to, the Red Hood could probably just pull a gun on him and tell him to leave. The evidence is delivered, so it would be disappointing, but not devastating. 

So Tim sits down slowly. Nothing happens. He hesitantly picks up his fork. The Red Hood isn’t focusing on him at all, just on trying to fit as much food as possible into his mouth at once.

And Tim is hungry. He hadn’t had any food all day, after rolling out of bed at 2:30 and then racing across Gotham all afternoon. And holy cannoli, the pasta is so freaking delicious. It might be the best meal he’s ever had, in his entire life. Tim tries his very best to respect the table manners he was raised on, but all he wants to do is force spaghetti down his throat until he can’t breathe. 

He thinks he sees Jason smirk but can’t bring himself to care, face full of the best spaghetti he’s ever eaten. Once and a while he’ll try and make it for himself at home, but nobody’s ever taught Tim how to cook, so it always turns out a soggy pile of mush. 

Jason is plowing through his meal with gusto, though, so Tim figures it’s probably okay if he eats a little messier than usual.

“So,” Jason starts around a mouthful of pasta, “How long have you been stalking me n’ the bats?” 

Crap. He really does NOT want to tell JASON TODD about how he’s been stalking him for a full six years. And now he’s aware of the spaghetti sauce around his mouth and the fact that he’s eating dinner with the Red Hood, but strangely enough, it doesn’t stress him out as much as it should. He just flushes red again. 

“I…uh,” he wipes his mouth with the napkin. “I…it’s kinda embarrassing.” No kidding. ‘Oh yeah, I just followed you and your adoptive father and brother around at night taking pictures of you and trying to figure out where you lived every single night, now can I have your spaghetti recipe?’ No way! 

But Jason offers him a small smile, and Tim talks, making sure his answer is as vague and non-creepy as possible. 

“When I was like, seven, I started following Batman and Robin around at night. And, um, I really didn’t have much else to do, so every night I just…recorded their patrols.” Yeah…with a camera. Every single night. Obsessively. WITH A CAMERA. Technically, he hasn’t lied, but no way is he ever letting it get back to the Bats that the kid next door has hundreds of photographs of them locked away in his bedroom. 

“Uh huh.” The Red Hood deadpans. “So when’d you start stalking me?” When I was ten and you became Robin, Tim wants to say, but he doesn’t. 

He isn’t able to conceal the small smirk that drifts across his face.

“Well, uh, back before you kinda vanished for a few months, I mainly just tried to get a general idea of like, your territory, I guess. But I didn’t start really mapping your routes and safehouses and such until you showed up again and started like, protecting kids and stuff.” Jason raises an eyebrow and stuffs more spaghetti in his mouth, and that’s a bullet dodged if Tim’s ever seen one. 

And technically, it IS true. He never really tried to trace the Red Hood while he was on his (post-resurrection?) killing spree, but mainly it was because he was trying to confirm if the Red Hood really was Jason Todd, back from the dead, like he suspected he was. 

So he didn’t stalk the Red Hood, specifically, but he definitely did stalk Bruce, Dick, the newest at the time-Damian-and the man he suspected to be Jason. It was. 

“That’s pretty smart, Kid.” Is all Jason says to him. He looks strangely pleased, for whatever reason. 

Tim offers him a small smile. “Thanks, Mr. Hood.” Jason grunts, and grimaces. Tim flinches internally as he remembers that despite the fact that Jason Todd is built like a tank and is technically on his second lifetime, he’s only seventeen. 

“You can, uh, drop the Mister part, Timbo. Just Hood is fine, I don’t bite.” Yeah, he should have predicted that, but it isn’t an easy habit to shake. 

In an effort to not have to respond to his blunder, Tim’s already stuffed another forkful of pasta in his mouth saving him from having to do any more than nod. 

“D’you track Nightwing too then, even if he’s based in Bludhaven now?” Tim nods again. This is a much safer topic, because yeah, he tracks Nightwing, but it isn’t really an obsession. 

“Uh, yeah, once he stopped being Robin I kept tabs on Nightwing too, and I know how Batman changes his patrol routes when he’s in town, but I can’t exactly ride my bike to Bludhaven, y’know?” The Red Hood starts to chuckle, which catches Tim off guard a little bit. It’s a lot less…creepy…of a chuckle than the ones that he’ll sometimes utter when he’s shooting at people in alleyways. 

“So you figured out that Robin and Nightwing were one and the same, then?” Oops. But Jason doesn’t sound angry, not even wary, really, just amused. And that really is something he’s proud of, because plenty of people never realized at all. 

“I mean,” he starts, trying desperately to clear his mouth of food, “they weren’t exactly subtle about it. Plus, Robin #2 fought totally different than Robin #1.”

“Oh? How so? Y’know, I wasn’t exactly in the scene back then.” Tim almost snorts audibly, and he really does have to stop himself from laughing or something. But he really didn’t expect the Red Hood to be asking him about how he stood apart from Dick Grayson’s much more…backflippy Robin. But he was different. He was so different. 

Jason’s Robin was brash, more hotheaded, angrier than Dick’s. Dick was all about putting on a show. The flashy colors and flips and twists that Tim used to figure out who he was. Ten seconds looking at Dick Grayson’s Robin and you could see that he was a performer. 

Jason though, he wasn’t about the show. He did just enough to keep suspicion off his back, cracked jokes here and there with ease, did a few of the original flashy Robin moves. But as Robin, Jason never really seemed to care all that much about the appearance of the show, about making it fluid and graceful and observable, like the Graysons on the trapeze. 

With Jason in the pixie boots, protection came first. Stopping the criminal as quickly and efficiently as possible, sans all of the distraction. Fights ended faster and cleaner, they were choppy and rough like a fight should be, not the ballet that Dick could somehow perform in between the punches. 

But he can’t say all that without sounding like an absolute creep, so instead he just says, “Oh, y’know, the new Robin was stronger and bulkier than the old one. Like, the first Robin had to rely on tricky moves and backflips and stuff to fight criminals, but the new Robin was more straightforward. Also, he made way less terrible puns.” 

Jason looks surprised, and Tim almost smirks again before becoming thoughtful. He says, “Y’know, the second one was my favorite.” 

The Red Hood’s eyebrows shoot up, and okay maybe he ought to be a little more carfeul, but Tim’s kinda having fun with this, now that the Red Hood isn’t a threat to his life anymore. “Why’s that?” asks Jason, sounding a bit short of breath. 

“Oh, he just made me feel safer.” Tim says casually, trying to end the conversation smoothly to avoid suspicion. He’s fairly convinced that the Bats can wipe minds, and it isn’t a theory he’s keen on testing anytime soon. Well, maybe the Red Hood doesn’t have that technology at his fingertips, but where he’s on the outs of Bruce Wayne’s little squad, Tim’s pretty sure he’d have no qualms about dropping him off in their lair to get his brain zapped. 

The rest of the meal passes with casual conversation and comfortable silence, which Tim is quite grateful for, because he really doesn’t know how much more his brain can take today. Eventually, Jason is done with his food, stretching back in his chair. 

Tim quickly wolfs down his last few bites, because he really doesn’t want to be awkwardly parked at Jason’s table, still eating, with the Red Hood moving around the apartment doing other things. Before he can protest, or do it himself, Hood has both of their plates in hand, heading towards the sink. Tim nearly trips trying to stand up quickly enough. 

“Hey Timbo,” Tim’s head whips around just as Jason lightly tosses him the flashdrive. “Do you wanna hook this up and open the most important files for me?” 

Tim can feel his eyes widening as excitement courses through him all of a sudden. “Seriously?” He breathes, catching the drive and staring at Jason with awe. Is the Red Hood really going to led him onto his computer? It seems so, because he sets the dishes in the sink and leads Tim across the room towards a cramped desk with a computer taking up most of the space.

“If you go fishing around in my system, I’ll know.” He grumbles, but it’s good-natured, and no way is Tim going to ruin the chance to actually help out the Red Hood on his personal computer by deciding to hunt through his systems for information. Tim practically launches himself into the computer chair, taking just a second to fit the drive into a USB port before his fingers are flying over the keys. 

Tim has created this organizational system years ago, back when he started collecting evidence against Jack and Janet and he started having to buy flashdrives bigger than the ones he used for school, and he’s never been more grateful for it. He opens the documents from each section that are ranked of highest importance and starts grouping them into different windows. He quickly runs the program to color-code each section and only a few minutes later, the Red Hood heavily plods across the room. 

Jason leans around Tim, studying the files on the screen. Tim glances up at him and offers a tiny little grin. He’s proud of the four years’ worth of information here. Every photograph that he snuck around to take, every email he hacked into Drake Industries’ most secure servers to track across cyberspace and download. 

“Okay, so the spreadsheets and order forms and documents that deal almost entirely in numbers are over here,” Tim waves the cursor over a group of open windows, and he can feel excitement pooling in his gut. He’s really helping the Red Hood, his Robin, with a case! “I’ve color coded those types red, to make them easier to find, and they’re all labeled like this,” Tim points out the labeling system and the continues on to review his filing and labeling system, his color code, his highlighting system, his information tags, and the way that the documents have been assigned level of importance. 

Before he even really notices it happening, Tim’s got this huge grin stretching across his face and wow, when was the last time he’d moved his hands that much while talking to someone? He’s about two seconds away from tucking back into himself because crap, he hadn’t meant to totally nerd out in front of his childhood hero. 

Then Jason says “Timbo, this is fantastic!” and he can feel the stupid expression growing on his face that is wayyy too transparent for his liking. He feels like there’s cotton in his ears, because he can hear the muffled sounds of the Red Hood talking about what parts of his system he likes, and how easy it’s gonna be to find everything but it doesn’t really feel real. 

All of a sudden there’s a gentle hand on his head, ruffling his hair and Tim absolutely freezes, brain skipping like a scratched CD. He can’t even remember the last time someone has ruffled his hair, or if it’s ever happened at all. 

Then and there, Tim makes the executive decision that hair ruffles are most undoubtedly a good thing, and he can feel himself melt against the hand on his head before it’s removed, and Tim wants to cry because he misses it already. God, he’s SUCH a weirdo. 

Why can’t he be casual about this like a normal person? Why does he have to freeze up and then immediately decide that it’s one of the top ten best moments of his entire life? 

The casual “Thanks, Timbers” that the Red Hood sends his way breaks through his mental spiral, and Jason’s moving so Tim can stand up, so that means he has to stand now. He forces his legs to work and propel him out from behind the sagging desk.

Tim fidgets and coughs awkwardly, brain still busy tricking back inside his skull, it feels like. “Um, so, I should…probably…go.”

Tim really does not want to go. Because he can’t exactly go HOME now. Oh god, he did not think about this at all. He can’t go home, his parents would lock him in a windowless closet in the middle of the house for an entire month. 

In fact, they’d lock him in there and then forget he’s in there and then leave on another trip, and he would have to wait for Mrs. Mac to show up for her weekly visit to let him out. 

“D’you need a ride back to Bristol?” Jason asks him. Does he? No, no he 100% needs to avoid Bristol. He needs to stay in the main part of the city where he can hide until the whole drug thing is shut down. He shakes his head. 

“No, it’s okay.” They start to walk towards the door, and Jason stops before Tim can leave. 

“Listen, Timbo, I won’t move all my safehouses yet, okay? Not until this is all over and the drug ring is down. So, ah, if you run into trouble, or something happens, come find me, yeah? Promise not to shoot ya.” It’s lighthearted, gentle. It makes Tim want to curl in a ball and sob, and he isn’t sure why. 

Tim conjures up the best genuine smile that he can without breaking into tears. 

“Thanks for the spaghetti, Hood. It was really, really good.” 

Tim takes off down the hallway, clutching his bag, and doesn’t allow his lip to start wobbling until he’s in the elevator, alone. 

.  
.  
.  
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.


	4. Chapter 4 (Jason/Tim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear you guys, the next chapters are like, so fluffy, I am SORRY that I wrote an actual plot instead of just...hurt/comfort :)
> 
> Also:
> 
> In THIS universe that I am writing, Dick and Bruce never had that big fight pre-Jason's death. So when Jason died it obviously wasn't good but Bruce had an actual emotional support system, so he didn't devolve and start getting hella violent. Also thanks to this, he isn't an unfeeling brick of an asshole like he becomes in canon. So yeah, he makes some questionable parental decisions because you can't have Bruce Wayne without emotional constipation, but he isn't a terrible person/father in this world. 
> 
> Also, because Bruce and Dick didn't have that fight and Dick didn't go and act like a dick, he and Jason had an actual brotherly relationship before Jason died. 
> 
> That is all until I remember something else. Enjoy!!

JASON

It’s an hour and a half later when Jason climbs back into his safehouse, soaked in sweat but head clear for the first time in days. All of the evidence Timmy left behind rests undisturbed on the coffee table, and crap, now he’s worrying about the tiny little kid again. 

Seriously, Jason interacted with the kid for just over an hour and all of a sudden, he’s grown attached? Christ, he’s turning into Dick, which is probably the worst thing imaginable next to turning into Damian, or, God forbid, Bruce. But he really can’t help it, because Timmy had been so small and earnest and sweet, talking about how the Red Hood protected kids, and then how he was his favorite Robin, and then getting all excited explaining his organizational system for the files he had meticulously collected and put together. Babs would love this kid. 

Plus, he wasn’t just small and earnest and sweet, he was also smart as fuck. He really oughta be more concerned about the fact that a thirteen year old had at some point figured out his entire schedule and an unconfirmed number of his safehouses, but the kid had marched himself across the entire city, knocked on the door of the Red Hood, and hand delivered actual years worth of evidence against his own parents, so no matter how anxious and meek he seemed, the kid was some type of badass. 

Jason sighs as he strips out of his armor and sets the hood on his coffee table. Shower first, then research. It was only like, ten o’clock, so he had a solid five to six hours to tear the stacks and stacks of incriminating figures apart and start to come up with a good game plan to shut down Jack and Janet Drake once and for all. 

(Jack and Janet Drake, who most certainly do NOT deserve the incredible kid they have, but Jason decidedly does NOT think about that for the rest of the night.)

(That’s a total lie, and he’s gonna wring their necks for ever laying a hand on their fucking child.)

Once he’s clean and dressed comfortably in sweatpants again, Jason puts on a pot of coffee and settles in for a long night of staring at numbers and words. He’s always loved to read, and when he was actually enrolled in a school, he excelled, but the research had always been his least favorite part of vigilante work. Back when he was Robin, even though Barbara was Batgirl at the time, she and Bruce still did the majority of the legwork when it came to sifting through various documents. 

But hey, Timmy did ALL of the legwork gathering and sorting the evidence, and he even went so far as to highlight important things and tag the documents so that Jason could find anything specific. 

As he clicks a highlighted location and it sends him to a list of all other instances the location is mentioned within the great melting pot of evidence, Jason feels yet another swell of gratitude for the floppy-haired thirteen-year-old. 

Within an hour, he’s got a long list of locations to hit, within two, a list of names. The Drakes are making a shit ton of money off of the sale of Angel Juice. The machine they’re running is well-oiled and well-hidden, buried under the brilliant façade of Drake Industries, one of Gotham’s largest tech companies, coming in somewhere around fourth to Wayne Enterprises. 

They’ve been trafficking drugs for years, and at the point where the evidence collection starts, four years ago, it’s obvious that the operation has been underway for quite a while. Up until three months ago, they’ve just been running a trafficking ring, bringing in foreign opioid-based products and distributing them to more obscure, low-level gangs at high prices. 

And now he knows how the Drakes have been transporting the drugs via the postal system, paying exorbitant amounts in clean cash that connects back to freaking Lithuania for anonymous packagers to “accidentally lose” whatever bulk purchase is being sent to whatever warehouse and replace it with crates of whatever drug they’re selling now. 

Tim’s even figured out how they identify the marked boxes, via the tracking numbers. All of the corresponding number values of the letters always add to 83, a number chosen completely at random, as far as Jason (Tim, who is he kidding?) can tell. 

The drastic increase in profits occurred three months ago, when the Angel Juice was finally done being developed by several high-profile Drake Industries scientists from the small, seemingly underfunded biochemical department. In all actuality, Jack and Janet had been funneling funds into the department, all in cold, hard, untraceable cash for about a year, the amount increasing three months ago. 

So the Drakes’ international shipping expenses were gone. The Angel Juice was cheaply and easily made right under all of their noses, in the last place they would think to look, and then immediately pumped into Gotham via the immense network of buyers that Jack and Janet had been using for years. There aren’t just exchanges with low-level dealers anymore, oh no, because of course Sionis is in this too, the Black Mask taking advantage of this wonderful, profitable, new drug. 

Four hours in and draining the last dregs of his pot of coffee, a plan is starting to take shape in Jason’s mind. 

The Drakes travel, a whole lot, all the time. 

(As if he could hate them any more than he already does, but no, they also leave their kid alone in a house for months, with nobody but a housekeeper that comes and cleans every week. No, Tim didn’t include that in his data roundup, but Jason is perfectly capable to doing his own research too, okay?)

There are plenty of operations he’s toppled where Jason can just go right for the head of the dragon, so to speak, but with larger, more carefully concealed operations it’s never that simple. 

First of all, the connections that Jack and Janet have to this operation are so obscure that only three or four people really even know that they’re involved, despite the fact that they’re the ones pulling the strings. In fact, their involvement is so well covered that even if he just broke into their house and put a bullet through each of their skulls, the operation would likely continue to run for another couple of months before it loses momentum and starts to devolve, and even then, the devolution could take years. 

And with the amount of product being sold and traded and synthesized, it’s bound to spread. But if Jason can’t directly end the operation his preferred method, the first thing he CAN do is stop, or at the very least severely cripple, the production of Angel Juice. 

Staging an attack on the biochemical laboratory that (of course) Tim has located, photographed, and documented extensively would forge a massive roadblock for a while as Drake Industries recovers. If he starts going after the company, Jack and Janet will be forced to stay in Gotham to keep up appearances as their company is being attacked by the Red Hood. 

Then, as there’s no more output, Jason could make quick work of the distributors, making sure whatever Angel Juice has already been made and stored never actually reaches the streets. Then, it’s just a matter of toppling the Drakes connections and resources, so that when he finally goes after the head of the dragon there’s nowhere to turn. They’ll be cornered. 

Jack and Janet Drake have moved so far up his shit list so quickly that it must be some kind of record, and they are going to deserve every little thing they have coming for them.

Jason turns off his computer, drops his coffee pot in the sink, arms his security system, and drops off to bed, dead to the world within minutes. 

By the time Jason’s up and actually awake, the sun is high in the sky. Blearily, he rubs his eyes and starts the coffee pot. Tonight, he’s going to infiltrate and trash the lab being used to synthesize the drug, and then the rest of Drake Industries just for good measure. Which means he’s got a whole lot of planning to do.

Tim had already provided the location of the lab, and the names of the people working in it, but Jason still needed blueprints of the building and a way to scramble their security system. 

By 11PM, the majority of the employees working in the DI building were gone, with only an assortment of night watchmen, janitors, and maintenance personnel still there. The lab was on the third floor underground with the rest of the biochemical department, state of the art and barricaded like nobody’s business. 

Jason spent an entire hour trying to find the best way in, scanning maintenance tunnels and emergency exits and even the subway lines. The Drakes sure picked a fantastic location for an illegal drug lab, he thinks to himself, peeling an orange and staring intently at his computer screen. It’s practically a cold war bunker. 

Yet again, he thinks about how much he would love to have Babs on his side again, especially now that she’s Oracle, as he studies the security measures. Jason doesn’t want it to seem like he’s specifically targeting the biochem lab, because he really doesn’t want to have Jack and Janet hightailing it out of Gotham first thing the next morning. 

Eventually, he taps into their mainframe and leaves a little bug. All he’s gotta do is click a button and BAM, the whole thing’s down for about four and a half minutes, giving him plenty of time to make his way down to the negative-third floor to start blowing his way out. 

Jason’ll have about seven minutes before the cops show up, and also probably the Bats, whoever’s around. He thanks his lucky stars that Cass is in Hong Kong right now, because if she wasn’t, Jason would be spending the next couple of nights hanging out in a bat holding cell, getting chewed out by Bruce and Dick, and annoyed to death by Damian. It’s easy enough to avoid Batman and Nightwing, pulling at old ties and taking advantage of their sentimentality, but Black Bat has no such reservations. 

Also, she’s an absolute badass who could probably take down goddamn Superman without breaking a sweat. 

With a sigh and a groan, he stretches and makes his way back to the kitchen. Jason needs to seriously make a grocery run, given that he has about another week in this safehouse before he makes his switch and he barely has the ingredients for soup. 

Jason turns the stove on and starts pulling out the stuff he needs for avgolemono soup, ready to use the cooked chicken breast that only has another day or two before he’s going to have to toss it. Tomorrow, he’ll stop off at the supermarket and stock up. Jason could certainly go for some pancakes. 

After tossing his leftover soup in the fridge and suiting up a couple hours later, Jason had moved in on the massive Drake Industries skyscraper near the Diamond District and was currently sitting on the roof across the street from it. 

He had been watching the windows go dark for an hour now, waiting until most everybody was out of the building, because most DI employees most surely did NOT realize it was also a jacked-up drug lab, and the regular nine-to-fivers didn’t deserve to get blown up by the Red Hood while just trying to make money. 

By midnight, the building was as cleared out as it was gonna get, and Batman was on the other side of the city, so Jason made his move, giving his bug a solid thirty seconds to collapse the security systems before marching right through the front doors. 

The night watchmen didn’t even make an attempt to stop the Red Hood, especially when he told them they had about a minute before the lobby was going to blow the fuck up. They bolted, and Jason flew down the maintenance stairs, smacking explosives to the walls as he ran and arming them. He had six minutes to get to the lab and then get out of the building unless he fancied being fried to a crisp. They weren’t anything that could bring the whole building toppling down, but burns were an absolute bitch to recover from and Jason had things to do. 

For example, things like disarming the embarrassingly-low-security-especially-for-guarding-a-drug-lab keypad and inspecting the place where Angel Juice was getting pumped out. He makes a lap around the lab so his hood camera can capture video, but honestly, he doesn’t really need it. It isn’t going to matter in about four minutes when the whole place has been blown the fuck up. 

Jason slaps his last few explosives to the walls and arms them. It was time to get the fuck out of there, the cops were almost definitely on their way, and Bruce was probably racing over here in his stupid little hero car, ready to give him yet another lecture, as if he had any right to talk to Jason at all. 

He bounds up the stairs, the clock on his utility belt ticking away, the explosives he passes all beeping faster and faster. Jason bursts out of the building and shoots his grapple gun, swinging upwards just as the windows explode out behind him, glass raining across the street and flames licking out the windows. The sirens in the distance are getting closer, and some civilian screams. 

He lets out a loud whoop, a massive grin spreading across his face under the hood, and holy shit, he finally made a move against the Angel Juice crisis! After an entire month! It’s going to take weeks for the production of the drug to pick up again, especially after he offs the asshole biochemists behind it. Weeks! 

Of course, nothing gold can stay though, and his smile slides right off his face when he lands on his rooftop and his older-fucking-brother’s standing there in wait.

Fucking Dickhead. 

Typical. 

“Nightwing,” he grinds out, considering just pushing him off the building and running as fast as he possibly can, but Dick’s way faster than he could ever be, and Alfred would be disappointed in him, so he could say goodbye to his cookie fix for the next six months. 

Dick crosses his arms and glares at him. “Hood.”

He and Dick had been doing better, really. Most of the pit rage had been focused on Bruce anyways, and now, after his detox, they had even gotten lunch or dinner together a couple of times, and on one weird occasion only about a month and a half ago, he’d even had Dick stitch him up after a particularly rough night. 

Bruce, he couldn’t even stand the sight of, but Dick? Dick had been his brother before he died, and a part of him misses it. So, it wasn’t like they patrolled together or took Damian to the zoo or anything, it wasn’t like they were an actual family anymore, but it was civil. Sometimes even pleasant. 

The face Dick was making now though? Decidedly NOT pleasant. 

Jason sighs, and tries not to draw his guns immediately. 

“What’s goin’ on, Goldie?” he drawls, knowing full well that the flames behind him are what’s going on. 

“Hood, why the hell would you go and blow up a tech company? What are you doing?” Dick’s waving his hands now, and oh fuck, this is gonna give him a migraine. “I mean,” he plows onwards, mouth twisted into a scowl. “B and I ignore the explosions in Crime Alley, okay? But you can’t just destroy a tech company by the Diamond District whenever you want!”

“Slow your roll there, ‘Wing, Christ, you’ll have an aneurysm.” Jason says, but Dick doesn’t stop talking. 

“-Hood, you KNOW you can’t just blow up whatever you want! What tech were you even trying to steal? You’ve always just stolen from B whenever you need gear, and by the way, he totally knows about that-”

If he didn’t have his hood on, Jason’d pinch the bridge of his nose, and Dick is somehow still lecturing him, arms waving around angrily. 

“Jesus, ‘Wing,” Jason finally interrupts, “I blew up their fucking drug lab, okay? Not that I really need to justify anything to you, of all people.”

“-and really, Little Wing, what’s Little D gonna think…. wait, drug lab?” Jason really, really wishes that Dick could see him rolling his eyes right now. 

“Yes, dumbass, DRUG LAB. Should I spell it for you? D, R, U-”

“Hood, stop it. What drug lab?” Dick just looks confused now. “What’s going on?” 

Jason scoffs. “Screw you, N, I’m not tellin’ you shit. Now can you butt outta my case? It’s covered.” Dick frowns at him and crosses his arms. 

“Hood,” he starts reproachfully, and GOD, if Jason didn’t wanna bail before, he sure does now. “How many people are going to die when you say you’ve ‘got it?’” Jason shrugs, palms up. 

“As many as it takes for me to not have to find any more fourteen-year-olds pumped full of opioids and dead behind dumpsters, fuckface.” Oh, that one hits a nerve. His (ex?) brother flinches back at that. 

“Ja-Hood, I…look, I…I didn’t mean to…” Jason groans and starts inching towards the edge of the roof. “Wait!” Dick says frantically. “Wait, okay, Hood, I didn’t mean to start, like, criticizing you again! I just wanna understand what’s going on so I can help!” He spreads his hands placatingly, and Jason knows that his eyes are all wide and puppy-like behind the domino. 

“Well, sorry Nightwing, but I don’t really want your help, because I don’t really want to deal with B at all, preferably for as long as I live. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patrol to finish.” 

Before Dick can start up on another no-killing lecture or make some guilt-trippy pitch about family and love and all that bullshit, Jason leaps off of the roof and grapples away, back towards Crime Alley, ready to find and shoot some evil scientists. 

Timbo had given him names and addresses of the lab personnel responsible for the creation of Angel Juice. First on his laundry list of visits to make is a Dr. James Collins, who looks kinda like a creepy old guidance counselor, from the pictures that Timmy had taken. 

The man lives in a goddamn penthouse, of course, totally alone. It’s a cakewalk turning off his alarm system and breaking in through a window. Jason pulls his guns out and marches through the kitchen. 

“Come out, come out, Jimmy!” He calls through the dark penthouse, and fires a shot into a large porcelain vase sitting on a pedestal, shattering it with a large crash. A muffled yelp comes from behind a door, and Jason smirks, kicking it in. 

It’s his home office or study or whatever rich people call their fancy rooms with desks and books that they use for work. Jason slams the door shut behind him. There’s no other way out of the room. “Oh, come on out, James, I just want to have a conversation,” he drawls, guns out in front of him. “We have SO much to discuss.” 

Jason stalks forward and kicks the desk. James Collins squeaks from where he’s hidden under it. Bingo. The man stands slowly, hands raised. The part of him that’s been twisted by the Lazarus Pit thinks, ‘good. Let him be terrified.’ 

“Hello there, Jimmy.” Jason grins from behind the hood. “You know who I am?”

The doctor nods. “R-Red Hood. I…Why are you here, uh, sir?” Jason fires a warning shot past his head. Collins gasps as it grazes his ear and lodges himself into the wall behind him. 

“Oh, we can skip the formalities, Jimbo. Here,” Jason gestures at the chair behind him with a gun. “Why don’t you take a seat?” The man all but collapses into the chair, breathing hard, with one hand clutching his bleeding ear. “Now,” Jason starts, his vision tinged green. “Do you wanna tell me about the little project you’re working on for Jack and Janet Drake?” 

The man’s hands start shaking a little at that and his eyes go wide. “It-it’s just a pharmaceutical thing, I swear! A new over-the-counter drug, nothing important at all, really!” Jason’s eyes narrow and he shoots the desk in front of him. Collins jumps. 

“You’re a shit liar, Jimmy. Wanna try that again?”

“What is it that you want? Money? I-I have a ton of it! However much you want! I can give it to you right now, cash!” Jason shoots him in the shoulder this time. He gasps, hunches over, growing more frantic. “Look, I’ll shut it all down, okay? I’ll pull the plug! Burn it all! I promise, okay?”

Jason cocks the gun again, green swirling in front of his eyes. The images of the working girls he knew, the kids he knew, in bodybags, flash through his mind. “Sorry, James. But I don’t think I believe you.” The gun goes off, the man slumps forward, and the Red Hood moves on. Next on the list is a Dr. Olivia Taggart. 

Jason plows through five of the seven scientists on the list, the last two both being out of town on a work trip and a vacation. He’s on his way back to his safehouse when he hears a shout in an alley, and immediately drops street-level, guns drawn again. 

It’s just some shittily-planned mugging, so Jason fires a warning shot, gets the guy to return the stolen purse, and sends the criminal home with a solid black eye. The woman’s too terrified of him to do more but nod shakily and bolt, but he kinda understands. Jason’s about to swing back up to the rooftops when he hears a clatter from behind the dumpster at the end of the alley. 

He draws a gun again, slowly advancing. Most likely, it’s a junkie, or maybe a street kid, but who knows? The extra caution is totally worth not getting kidnapped or something. 

“Who’s back there?” Whatever’s behind the dumpster squeaks, and accidently kicks it or something, because the whole thing clangs, which causes them to squeak again. So probably just some kid. He feels a pang in his chest and is about ready to offer them some cash or something, when a head pokes out from behind the dumpster, eyes wide and hair tousled. 

Jason stuffs his gun back in the holster and rips his helmet off as fast as he can, his heart dropping. 

“Timmy?” 

TIM

Tim Drake is Not going to cry. 

Tim Drake has been stalking Batman since before most people could do basic multiplication, and Tim Drake has mapped the patrol routes of every vigilante in Gotham, and Tim Drake just helped the Red-freaking-Hood on a case, so Tim Drake is not going to cry just because he can’t go home. 

He’d been holding back tears since he left Jason Todd’s safehouse, willing them not to well up in his eyes like some pitiful BABY, and now he’s ducked into an alleyway only a block away from the warm apartment where he’d just eaten spaghetti and gotten to actually be proud of his stupid computer systems and had his hair ruffled by his actual hero, and he is 100% NOT crying, not even a little bit. 

Nope. 

Tim hadn’t walked very far before slipping into the narrow slot between two buildings to furiously wipe his eyes and try to come up with a plan. When he’d snuck out of Drake Manor, he hadn’t thought ahead any further than ‘find Red Hood, deliver evidence, don’t get experimented on’ but now, all three points of his plan had been completed and there was no way to go. 

He’s incredibly grateful that Jason had fed him dinner so food was one less thing to worry about, at the very least. Tim had pretty much gorged himself on the Spaghetti, eating more in one sitting than he usually did in three or four days, so he was good on the sustenance front for a day or two. 

He could get water from the fountains at Robinson Park along the walking path, and during the day he could just hang out at the library with Babs, but where was he gonna sleep? 

Tim sniffled a little pathetically and buried his face in his hands. 

His mom and dad were most undoubtedly looking for him, and yeah, maybe not around Crime Alley, or the Bowery, or Robbinsville, or really anywhere in Burley yet, but they would eventually. Who knew how many people they had keeping an eye out for him? 

Tim needed somewhere to sleep, but he couldn’t be seen from the street, or the cops would do something, or someone would see him and call his parents, and oh my god, what was he even supposed to do? 

But he needed to do SOMETHING, he couldn’t just curl up here, so close to the Red Hood’s apartment. That would be weird, and even more pathetic, if possible. So Tim steeled himself and edged out of the alley. 

It wasn’t late at all, the sun barely setting, so Tim wandered along the streets until he ended up at Sheldon Park. It was as good a place as any to wait for a few hours until he could find somewhere to curl up for the night. 

Tim found a nice secluded bench and watched the birds flit in and out of the trees for a while. He wondered what Poison Ivy was up to, not for any particular reason, just because she hadn’t really caused any trouble at all recently. 

Tim liked Dr. Isley, despite the fact that she was a Rogue. He’d even spoken to her more than once, when she’d caught him stalking Batman through Robinson Park while fighting her. Honestly, she was quite nice, and only really wanted to protect the plants. The kissing thing was weird, and the poisoning people thing wasn’t great, but she’d given him a flower the second time she caught him before sending him home. 

He’d been ten. For the past three years, every time the Bats had fought Dr. Isley, he’d made it a point to stick around after the battle and talk to her, given that she wasn’t being shipped back to Arkham. There were rarely any deaths connected to her, and where she and Batman fought all the time, he knew that there had been times she’d teamed up with Batgirl. 

She usually doesn’t leave Robinson Park, unless it’s to hang out with the other Rogues like Catwoman or Harley Quinn (Dr. Quinzel?) but Tim thinks Sheldon Park is quite nice as well, just not as big. 

Before too long, it’s pitch black in the park, and the cool seabreeze is wafting in from the river, so Tim stands, brushes off his pants, and starts to make his way back inland. He eventually comes across an unoccupied dumpster that doesn’t smell totally awful and crawls behind it, bone-tired. 

It doesn’t take long for Tim to fall asleep, curled around himself and utterly drained. 

The next morning, Tim wakes up around eight, stinking like a dog and sore all over. His clothes are grimy and his hair is greasy and Tim just feels so gross and miserable and all he wants to do is take a long shower and get some clean clothes and have Drake Manor all alone to himself again, but that’s probably never gonna happen again. 

Whether his parents end up in Blackgate or flee the country (or end up dead), Tim is probably never going to be left alone in the big empty house for months at a time ever again. He really isn’t sure what that makes him feel, so he stops thinking about it. 

It’s time to head to the library. 

Barbara was gonna drill him with questions, he just knew it, but it wasn’t like Tim exactly had a change of clothes with him, so he just hoped she didn’t look into it too much. Even though she was a freakin’ Bat, he was just some kid who hung out at the library a lot. They were friends for sure, and Barbara was probably the best friend he had, really, besides maybe Steph from school, but he wasn’t really important, in the grand scheme of things. 

After he peeled himself off the ground with a groan, Tim started the long trek across the city to Gotham Proper, where the library was, just a few blocks from the school. 

Really, it only should have taken about two hours to walk there, but Tim stuck off the main roads in fear of getting spotted by some Drake Industries employee and carted home. By the time he finally reached the library’s doors, the sun was high in the sky and Tim was soaked with sweat and miserable. 

The sweet rush of air conditioning made Tim want to drop to his knees and sob with relief as he stepped into the building and started making his way towards the back, where the tables were. 

Barbara was at the help desk, like she had been ever since she became wheelchair bound and she smiled warmly at him as he approached the desk. 

“Hey, Tim! I was wondering if you were even gonna show up today.” She says, pushing her glasses back up to her nose. “You’re usually here earlier.” She wrinkled her nose and gave him a once-over. “Did you walk?”

He nods, relieved at the excuse she has just given him for his state. “Yeah, I uh, was over at Sheldon Park and decided to just walk the rest of the way here.” And, if you look at this from a veeeeeeery technical standpoint, it isn’t a lie! 

He slid into a chair at the table directly behind the help desk with a sigh, his bones still achy from the night spent on the dirty asphalt. “Geez, Tim, you seriously need a shower.” Tim sighed and buried his head in his hands. 

“Don’t I know it.” He mumbled back. He smelled like sweat and dumpster and spoiled food and every inch of his skin felt disgusting. At some point, he would have to find a pool or something to visit, or maybe sneak into his school and use the showers. Tim could probably break into Wayne Enterprises if he really wanted to, it wouldn’t be any issue, especially with summer classes going on. 

“Hey,” Babs’ gentle voice again, a little softer this time. “How about I show you how to hack NASA’s satellites?” Tim brightened instantly, heady shooting up despite the protest in his neck. 

“Seriously? You know how to do that?” She grinned at him, eyes twinkling behind her glasses. 

“Tim, it’s been four years that you’ve known me, d’you really think I can’t get into a few satellite systems?” And it’s true, Tim thinks. There’s never been a system she can’t break. In fact, being the ex-girlfriend of one Dick Grayson, it wouldn’t surprise Tim one bit if she knew every secret the Bats had ever uploaded to an electronic device of any kind, including their identities. He couldn’t really confirm this suspicion without revealing his own knowledge of everyone’s night jobs, but for Barbara Gordon, cracking the CIA’s systems was practically child’s play. 

So he shakes his head, unable to wipe the grin off his face, and pulls his chair up behind the desk with Babs, staring over her shoulder at her desktop screen, where she’s demonstrated and then taught him how to get past dozens upon dozens of systems. 

Her fingers fly over the keyboard and she explains every step to Tim, who nods along and even occasionally provides help that she probably (100%, totally, unquestionably) does not need. It takes her about ten minutes, especially because she was going as slow as she could to show Tim how to take over a satellite remotely and untraceably. Behind maybe Jason’s Robin, Babs was probably Tim’s biggest hero. She was awesome, and literally the coolest person he knew. 

When they did finally have complete control over one of NASA’s many satellites, though, it was more or less one of the absolute coolest things Tim had ever seen, being the space enthusiast that he was. They didn’t want to mess with things too much, lest somebody noticed, but getting to pull up the raw feed and have all of the information at the tips of his fingers was exhilarating. 

He couldn’t stop the giddy smile from stretching his face as he switched between the different video feeds. Babs smirked at him knowingly, giving him a minute to mess around before backing out of the system.

“Okee dokee Tim, your turn,” she wheeled back a little, letting Tim slide behind the library desktop. “and don’t get us caught.” 

Tim decided to go after the satellite currently closest to Gotham, and began to run through the steps that Barbara had just demonstrated. Each time he got stuck for more than a couple of seconds, she offered pointers, and each time he was able to breeze past a password or firewall, she gave him a “nice” or a “good one, Tim.” 

After eight and a half minutes of constantly pecking away at the computer keys, Tim was in and watching earth whiz by, backed by an expanse of stars and blackness. Babs whistled lowly. 

“Eight-thirty-six? Not bad for your first run, Tim.” He glanced away from the computer for a moment to offer a grin.

“Like you haven’t done this in three minutes or less with zero trouble at all.” Barbara rolled her eyes at him and pushed up her glasses, wheeling in a little closer. 

“Yeah, and I’m also seven years older than you and also in college. Now,” her voice softened and she looked Tim in the eye, kindly but firmly. “Do you want to tell me the real reason why you look like you’ve slept in a garden shed? And how about those bruises, huh?” 

Crap. So she hadn’t let his excuse slide. 

Barbara frowned disapprovingly at him as he averted his eyes. Tim could lie his butt off any day of the week to just about anybody on earth, anybody but Barbara Gordon. It wasn’t that she was some incredible human lie detector, but instead that every time he did, he felt queasy for the rest of the day and almost always ended up either coming clean or something close to it. 

He didn’t say anything, and she sighed. 

“Look, Tim, I respect your privacy, I really do. I don’t even know your last name, and you know I could find it if I wanted to. But Kiddo, all of this?” She gestured to his face and his bruised wrists and his dirty clothes and he felt himself wincing. “It worries me. So if something’s happening, if someone’s hurting you…”

He shook his head vehemently and stood from the chair. His palms were getting sweaty. Crap, crap, crap. He knew Babs sometimes looked at him a little more carefully than usual when he came to the library while his parents were home, when there would be the odd mark or two left over from an instance of backtalk or attitude, but she’s never just SAID it like this. NEVER. 

“Nothing, okay, I just got into a fight with this kid from my school yesterday when I ran into him at the park. He’s a lot bigger than me, smacks my books down in the hallway when school’s in session sometimes, no big deal.” 

Barbara’s frowning at him and frack, she doesn’t believe him at all, and his palms are sweating and he can feel his throat starting to constrict, his heart starting to race. He pushes back from the desk and stumbles to his feet, blood rushing to his head. He wants to go home, he wants his big house of solitude and he wants to sit in his darkroom under the comforting red lights and develop photos and he wants his big shower, but he can’t, he can’t because his parents are there and Drake Manor is just a house and not a home when they’re there. 

“Hey, hey, Tim, Kiddo. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to confront you like that, okay? How about you go and find a linear algebra textbook, I learned this new thing with matrices in my class at school that I’ve been meaning to show you. I promise I won’t pry.” 

Tim knows his face is beet red, he knows that he’s freaked out way too much for Barbara to ever buy his excuses or stop worrying, but he also knows Barbara, and if she says she won’t ask about it anymore, then she won’t ask about it anymore. 

So Tim jerkily nods and turns towards the aisle of math books in search of the linear algebra textbook that he and Babs have been working through ever since she started her third class in it at the beginning of summer and lets his arms and legs just take over. 

He likes math, he likes the matrices that Babs has taught him, likes the patterns that they make and the way that they provide a code for pretty much everything in the universe. So for the next hour, Barbara goes over the new things she’s learned in her lectures and then Tim lets himself get lost in the world of mathematics until the library starts to clear out and the clock strikes 8 PM. 

He shelves the book and bids a still-concerned-but-not-overwhelmingly Babs goodnight, thanks her for her lesson in illegal hacking of the day, and tells her he’ll see her tomorrow. 

Tim steps back out into the streets of Gotham, the sun dying in the sky and the heat bleeding out of the city. It’s a long walk back to his alleyway that he plans to sleep in again, sure that his parents are not yet nearly desperate enough to search for him in the most crime-ridden parts of Burnley, not knowing that he’d been exploring them since he was seven years old. 

It doesn’t take him quite as long this time now that the sun isn’t beating down on his back. For the first time all day, Tim’s stomach growls and he is reminded that he hasn’t eaten anything since dinner last night with the Red Hood. Typically, that wouldn’t be a big deal or even unusual, but he’s been marching all over the city, sweating like a dog, and there’s no Drake Manor to return to and microwave a cup of mac n’ cheese at. 

By the time Tim has tucked himself back behind the dumpster, his stomach is gnawing at him with hunger, every bone in his body aches like he’s been run over by a truck, and he wants a shower so bad that a few tears leak out of his eyes. So Tim pictures the cold, pristine floors of Drake Manor that he isn’t permitted to walk along barefoot lest he leave footprints on the marble and he thinks about the soothing red light of his darkroom and he thinks about the incredible spaghetti that he ate last night, and Tim falls asleep. 

At least until a gunshot rips him out of his fitful rest only a few hours later and Tim accidentally kicks a patch of loose gravel as he shoots up, eyes going wide with terror. 

“Who’s back there?” A gravelly voice growls , and Tim lets loose a squeak before he can force himself into silence, kicks the dumpster in surprise, and squeaks again. God he’s gonna die he’s gonna die he’sgonnadie. 

But maybe if the person about to kill him/mug him/maim him sees that he’s just a kid with nothing, they’ll leave him be, so Tim slowly edges out from behind the dumpster, sticking his head out into the alley. 

And oh, oh thank god. Relief floods him as he recognizes a familiar red helmet, and even more so as the helmet is ripped off and the gun pointed towards him tucked away, and the face of Jason Todd is staring at him, looking concerned. 

“Timmy?” 

.  
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	5. Chapter 5 (Jason)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Early update! Once again, just thanks so much to everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos and bookmarking, seriously, it motivates me so much and I appreciate you. Again, if there's any specific scene you're dying to see, just let me know!
> 
> Also, yes, I added a chapter count. I have roughly 30 chapters either written or outlined, all hovering around 5,000 words. However, don't take that number as gospel, since it could go up or down, depending on how long or short certain scenes are. We're looking at a pretty long fic here folks, as I'm at 75k words and have 14 chapters written. Hope y'all stick with me for the long haul!

Jason doesn’t know what the hell’s going on. 

Timmy’s crouching there, half behind the dumpster and half not, with a distinctive deer-in-the-headlights look plastered to his face. He hasn’t said a thing, so Jason tries again. 

“Timbers, what’re you doing out here? It’s late as fuck, Kid.” And, Jason realizes with a painful jolt, he’s wearing the same T-shirt and jeans as he was the previous night. He’s never been Bruce’s most exemplary detective, a fact that he’ll be the second to admit (after Damian, of course), but Jason isn’t just straight-up stupid. 

He hasn’t gone home. He’d been sleeping behind a fucking dumpster in a dirty fucking alley. Jason wants to scream. He wants to scream and shout and punch things, but Tim is just sitting there, staring at him, wide-eyed and filthy and shaken up, so Jason reaches for every last modicum of restraint that he has and forces away the pit. 

Tim inches out into the alley, fisting his hands in his shirt. Jason notices the slight tremors running through them and has to actively work to keep the green haze away. The kid swallows audibly, not scared-looking really, but a cross between a bedraggled kitten and a puppy caught chewing a shoe.

“R-Red Hood? I, uh…I…” Tim ducks his head and swallows again. “What’re you doing here?”

Jason snorts softly and inches closer to the boy until he’s within arm’s reach. The handprint on his face is an ugly purple now, it looks almost two days old. Also, he smells. “I’m fairly sure I asked you first, Timbo. I just stopped a mugging.” Tim looks away again, revealing smudges of grime on his cheek. 

He mumbles something so softly that Jason only catches the tail end of it. 

“Whaddaya mean you couldn’t go home, Tim?” The kid finally looks at him fully, and oh, his lip is wobbling. Shit. Shit, shit, fuck, shit. He is SO not equipped to deal with a crying thirteen-year-old, especially not in this gross, smelly alley. 

“I wasn’t supposed to know about the drugs.” He all but whispers, voice all scratchy and muted. 

Fucking hell. This is not something that the Red Hood is emotionally equipped to do, but there’s no way in hell that Jason’s just gonna leave the kid here to go back to sleep behind his dumpster, so he sighs and pops the helmet back on.

“Okay, Timbo, we’re gonna go back to my safehouse and you’re gonna get cleaned up, and then you’re gonna tell me what’s going on, m’kay?” 

Timmy’s face creases in confusion, but he nods anyways, and slowly edges forward. He looks wary, skittish, lost, and it makes Jason’s heart clench ridiculously. Tim’s just so small, much smaller than Jason ever was at thirteen, and so brilliant and sweet. 

The kid is just standing there, his gaze flickering between the ground and Jason and the end of the alley, trying to discreetly wipe his palms on his grungy pants. Remembering the way the kid had gone practically boneless when he’d ruffled his hair, Jason places a gentle hand on Tim’s shoulder and starts to steer him out onto the main road. 

He pretends not to notice the way the kid leans into his gloved hand and relaxes. Sometime during the short walk back to Jason’s safehouse, Timmy’s hands have stopped shaking. He counts it as a win and guides the kid into the same apartment they’d eaten spaghetti at just the other night. 

Jason pulls off his gloves and jacket and folds them across the back of a chair. “Alright, Timmers, how ‘bout a shower? No offense, but you don’t exactly smell like a field of daisies right now.” 

“Most species of daisy are odorless.” Tim mumbles, but his mouth twitches upwards briefly, so Jason steers him towards the bathroom with a grin. 

“You read that in a Better Homes & Gardens magazine, Timbo?” he quips lightheartedly as he retreats to his bedroom to grab a fresh towel and some clothes that might fit the slight boy until he can wash Tim’s clothes. A quiet snort resounds from the bathroom, and a weight he didn’t even realize existed lifts from Jason’s chest. 

He grabs an old shirt and digs his smallest, oldest pair of sweatpants out from the bottom of his drawer and pads back to the bathroom, where Tim’s waiting meekly. “Okay, left for hot water, right for cold. Uh, holler if you need anything.” With that, he backs out of the bathroom and closes the door. A few seconds later, the soft rush of the shower fills the apartment. 

Jason slips out of his boots tosses his belt and hood onto his bed, and immediately makes his way to the kitchen, pulling out his leftover soup from earlier that evening, or, technically, yesterday evening. Jason dumps it into a pot and turns on the stove, thanking his lucky stars he had made extra. He had no clue if the kid had eaten a thing since their first dinner, but he really doubted it and Timmy was already tiny. 

Objectively, he really didn’t know why he was reacting so strongly to this. Any kid living on the streets or getting smacked around by their parents made Jason inherently angry, but he never even considered taking them back to his safehouses, instead trying to find other, better ways to help them out. 

Any homeless, hungry kid with bruises and a smudgy face resonated with him, always because of the blatant, painful familiarity of it. He can still remember those months on the streets, before Bruce and Dick and Alfred and Babs but after Catherine, remember collecting dirty newspaper pages to try and use to keep warm on colder nights, and remember being knocked backwards by Willis Todd’s massive fist, and remember being leered at by drunk old men on the side of the road while trying to pick through the garbage behind restaurants looking for food. 

He remembers missing his mom, mourning her before she had even died, and he remembers feeling nothing but a guilty flood of relief when they got the news that Willis was dead. And, yeah, maybe Tim crouched in an alley covered in bruises and hungry, with his shitbag criminal parents and shaky hands just struck one too many chords with Jason. But he thinks it might be something more, too, something a little harder to place. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it though, before the water shuts off in the bathroom. 

Jason pours the reheated soup into a bowl and sticks a spoon in it, setting it on the table next to a glass of water. About a minute later, Tim cracked open the door and shuffled out of the bathroom, his long hair sticking up every direction in a totally endearing way, absolutely drowning in Jason’s old clothes. The sweatpants had to be rolled like six times at his waist. He looked so much more content now that he was clean. 

“Right, then, Timbers, how do you like avgolemono?” Tim wrinkled his brow and tilted his head, sliding into the chair at the table. 

He used the spoon to stir the soup, staring into it curiously. “What’s that?” 

“Chicken-lemon-rice soup. ‘S good, a Greek thing.” Tim took a tentative sip, his eyes lighting up in a way that was almost comically adorable. 

His next spoonful was much bigger. “This is so good!” He breathed out between bites. Jason felt a small burst of pride in his chest. 

“Glad you like it, Timbo. I’m gonna grab a quick shower now.” 

“You’re gonna leave me in your safehouse, like, unsupervised?” His eyes widened instantaneously, and he rushed to correct himself. “Not, uh, not that I would do anything! Or anything like that. Just, ya know. I won’t do anything, I swear. I was just…” Tim trailed off, cheeks reddening immensely, looking almost painfully embarrassed. 

Jason chuckled. “Timbo, I’m fairly certain that if you were gonna try anything, you already would’ve, yeah? Also, you already had a chance to download all my files, and ya didn’t, and I’m sweaty as fuck. So you eat your soup, and I’ll go get cleaned up, and then we can talk.” 

Tim ducked his head, and Jason didn’t miss his tiny flinch when he had told him they would talk, but the kid just whispered a tiny little “okay” and took another spoonful of soup, so Jason went to grab himself some clothes and shower. 

He did his very best to make it as quick as possible while still ridding himself of the trademark Gotham grime, and once he, too, was clad in sweatpants and a T-shirt (One of Kori’s, this time), with a spare lens-less domino slapped hastily to his face, Jason headed back out to the main room of his safehouse. 

Tim was drying his bowl off in the kitchen. “I, uh…uh…where do the dishes go?” Tim asked him, turning around. The clean cup and spoon sat on the counter next to the sink. 

“Top left for the cup, top right for the bowl, and the drawer behind you is silverware. Thanks, Timbo.” Tim offered him a tentative smile and moved to put away the dishes, having to stretch on his tiptoes to even reach the cabinets. Jason ran a hand over his face while the kid’s back was turned. He was not looking forward to this conversation. 

Another thing, though, that Jason had learned from Alfred was that all difficult conversations go better with tea. Pretty much every regular-human-being thing that he knew came directly from Alfred, and Jason couldn’t stop the rush of nostalgia that came, picturing Alfred sitting up with him at the manor only a month after he moved in, handing him a steaming cup of jasmine tea. It was the first time he’d ever really opened up to anybody at all, with Catherine being high half the time and Willis being an asshole and Bruce being an emotionally constipated sonofabitch. Christ, he missed Alfred. 

But Timmy was here right now, with him, not Alfred, and Timmy had been camping behind a dumpster, covered in dirt and gristle. Not really knowing anything else to do, he moved next to Tim to grab the two mugs that he owned. Tim flinched as he came up behind him, an automatic response to anybody coming close to him at all, and Jason could feel his heart aching for the kid. 

He filled the mugs with water and stuck them in the microwave for two minutes, since he didn’t have a kettle at this safehouse, pulling out a couple of teabags (courtesy of Alfred) and asking Tim if jasmine was okay. 

He nodded, fidgeting awkwardly with the shirt of Jason’s he was wearing, looking a little lost. Jason nodded towards the couch. “Wanna wait over there?” 

“…Sure.” Until now, Jason hadn’t even know it was possible to speak that quietly, but here he was. Jason pulled the mugs out of the microwave and dunked the teabags in them. It wasn’t Alfred’s tea kettle and loose leaves and fancy British tea set, but it was good enough. 

Jason handed a mug to Tim, who was perched awkwardly on the very edge of the couch like he’d get in trouble for fucking sitting, for taking up any space at all. Now that he was clean and inside, the bruises on his face and arms looked even more out of place. Jason discreetly ran through a breathing exercise as he flopped on the couch. 

Using the same technique that he had to get Timmy to eat spaghetti comfortably, he dramatically slumped against the couch, plopped his feet on the coffee table, and mussed the blanket folded against the cushions. Almost instantaneously, Tim relaxed. He didn’t take up any more space or toss his feet around or anything, but he did lean back in a state that was almost relaxed, if not for the lingering tension in his shoulders and face. 

“Right then, Kid, why were you napping in that alley?” He winced internally. Great. That was even more tactless than Damian. So much for channeling Alfie. 

“I…I just…” Tim was clutching the mug so hard that his knuckles were turning white. Jason realized it was to try and stop them from shaking. God, this kid. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward. 

“Okay, Timbo. Look, here’s what I know, okay? You’re wearing the same clothes when I saw you the other day, yeah? And I found you behind a dumpster sleeping. So I don’t think you’ve gone home.” Tim’s hands were shaking even more violently, the tea sloshing around inside the mug. He was just staring at the threadbare carpet under his feet miserably. 

“I…I wasn’t supposed to know. About the drugs.” Tim glanced up at Jason, finally, meeting his eyes for the shortest second before looking away again. “I um, I asked about the…the profits. The extra ones. When I was little. Mom told me to forget it.” Christ, and now Jason can imagine a tiny genius baby Timmy waddling over to his mother, all curious and brilliant. 

“I…uh, they left again, after that. For another trip. Two months exploring East Asia.” Jason grimaced, remembering the Drakes travel history that he’d researched. Months alone with only a housekeeper for company once a week, what would that do to a child? The Drakes had initially had a nanny, but she had left once Tim turned ten. What kind of vile human being leaves a kid alone for a week with not a single person to talk to?

“Is that when you learned about the whole drug thing?” He asks, instead of making angry faces at the pictures of Jack and Janet Drake spread out across his desk. Tim shakes his head, finally sips his tea. 

“No, no I uh, I went to the library. Because I was suspicious? Learned how to like, hack. I guess. Next time they were home I broke into my Dad’s laptop and downloaded everything onto my own computer.” He lets out a low whistle at this, more than a little bit impressed. 

“Damn, Timbo. That’s hardcore.” It’s stupid, a totally dopey thing to say, but the tiny, pleased little smile he gets in return is worth it completely. It occurs to him that it’s fairly likely that nobody had ever praised him for that particular achievement, and he vows to make it a point to compliment it more. Later, though. 

“I, uh, thanks. But um, anyways. I kept tabs on it all, y’know, took some pictures and stuff too. But see, uh, I’ve never really paid my parents back yet, ya know?” No, he did NOT know. He definitely did NOT know. Jason tried to keep the pit at bay, I mean, he didn’t fully understand yet, right? Maybe Tim stacked up too many charges on the credit card or something, and it isn’t as bad as it sounds?

“No, Timbo, whaddaya mean paid them back yet? Like, for a new computer or something?” Tim shakes his head, of-fucking-course. 

“No, for like, y’know. Being born. Living in the house? Eating the food they buy me? Um, clothes. My bedroom? Schoolbooks, regular books. That kind of stuff. I’m in their debt, you know? That’s…that’s how it is?” 

There was a buzzing sound in his ears. Jason slowly shook his head, setting his mug on the table before he could chuck it at the wall or something and freak Timmy out. Catherine and Willis had been shitty parents, terrible, and Bruce, where he had a fuck ton of money, was not much of an upgrade, sticking him in a pair of panties and sending him to fight crime on the streets at night. But never, NEVER, did a single one of them EVER make him think that he owed them some fucked up debt just for being fucking BORN. 

“Tim,” he said slowly. “Tim, I…could you…okay. Look, you don’t have to look at me, or say anything, but I…I need you to listen to me. You do not owe your parents ANYTHING, okay? NOTHING. It was their choice to have a child, it was their choice to take that step, and because they made that decision, they are required, BY LAW,” and Jason wants to add that they shouldn’t even NEED the law to require them to take care of their goddamn fucking child, they just SHOULD, “to take care of you. Do you…do you get that?”

Tim doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a muscle save for the tremors in his hands, so Jason keeps going. 

“Timbo, taking care of someone, taking care of your kid, that doesn’t just mean they make sure you’re alive, okay? That means…” and he thinks about Alfred making him tea in the kitchen and Dick attempting to cook for him once he’d gotten his own apartment and Babs letting him bitch about how his English teacher was totally butchering the purpose of Romeo and Juliet and even Bruce, buying him obscenely expensive presents at every holiday, trying to prove in his own convoluted way that he cared. 

“That means, not just having clothes and food and shelter, but making sure that you’re happy. As happy as possible. Not just alive, okay? And not just content either. Happy. Comfortable. Doing their very best to give you as much happiness and security as possible. And, Timbers, it’s never, ever, ever an obligation. It isn’t even a trade. You just DO it. And your parents…”

Jason swallows, throat all of a sudden dry. Tim’s staring down at his tea, hair falling in front of his face in black swatches. 

“Tim, your parents should take care of you because they love you. Your family should take care of you just because. Not to incur or fulfill a debt, and not because you’re an asset and not for any other reason than just because they care.”

Jason thinks briefly of Damian and Cass. He knows that, in her own way, Talia DID love the Demon Brat, and she did take care of him, not that it made his upbringing any less fucked to hell. He only had heard little snippets of David Cain, though. He wonders if he ever loved Black Bat as anything more than a useful soldier. 

Tim still hasn’t looked up, so Jason sits for a second. He was gonna try to not overwhelm the kid, and also to avoid the whole-discussion-of-feelings thing, but that’s been kinda chucked out the window at this point. 

And if it wasn’t already out the window it sure is now, once Jason hears Timmy try and stifle a small sniffle. Aw, shit. 

He finally turns and looks at Jason, eyes shiny with brimming tears, looking way younger than he actually was, the purpley-blue bruise on his face in stark contrast with all the rest of him. “I…” his breath hitches dangerously and Jason slowly, carefully, reaches over and wiggles the mug out of the kid’s iron grip, setting it on the table. 

“Timmy…”

“I…Hood…they wanted me to…to test it.” The last three words come out as a whisper, and Jason finally understands. 

It takes every ounce of restraint not to shoot to his feet and plant his fist right through the fucking wall. 

They were gonna use him as a guinea pig, a lab rat, for their goddamn fucking opioid, because they were convinced that their fucking child fucking OWED THEM!? What, because testing kids wasn’t immoral and sick already, no, its just that the best possible thing to do was to test fucking Angel Juice on their own fucking son. FUCK. 

“Christ, Timmy…” Is all he can manage to force past his lips. Jason feels as if his chest is constricting with the absolute need to tear out of this safehouse and rip Jack and Janet Drake’s heads off with his bare hands. 

Tim isn’t done yet though. “That’s why…that’s why I can’t go home. I…I kinda…climbed out my window and came here. I just…” The kid is staring at him with those big blue eyes that are about to spill over. “I’m just so tired of being SCARED.” Is all he can choke out before he crumples like a puppet with his springs cut. 

Tim’s breath is coming in short gasps, head pressed to his thighs and hands pulling at his hair painfully. Jason can feel his heart physically shattering, can feel it in every square centimeter of his entire body, as he watches Timmy just implode on his couch. 

“Oh, Kiddo. Kiddo, it’s…it’s going to all be okay, okay? I promise. I promise I’m gonna end all of this, okay? You’ll never have to go back to them ever again, I swear it.” All Jason can do is try and offer sweet nothings, empty condolences, and he HATES it. 

He hates empty condolences with every inch of his being, and he’s always hated it when people have murmured them to him, but he gets it now. He really gets it now, and he’s never gonna be a bitch about them again. He just sits there, hands hovering uselessly, because who knows how Tim’s gonna react if he tries to touch him?

But God, the kid just sounds so fucking broken, trying in vain to cry quietly, to panic quietly, and finally, a loud, raw sob rips through him and Jason can’t just sit there anymore, so he gently, so very gently, places a hand on Tim’s small back.

He flinches, but he doesn’t shy away, instead almost pushing up into the soft touch, so Jason starts to rub circles into his back. The shirt does nothing to stop him from being able to feel every vertebrae in Tim’s spine, and every rib under his skin. 

When he shifts so that his side presses against Timmy’s, the boy practically keens through his tears, and Jason wonders what it was like, living in a house alone since he was ten. He wonders if the only time anybody ever even touched him was his parents smacking him around. He wonders if they ever hugged him, kissed his forehead when he was sick, held his hand when the power went out. 

Timmy goes boneless, slumping sideways against him, and Jason wraps his arms around the sobbing little boy, because that’s all he is, a terrified, traumatized, little kid, not even out of middle school yet. Tim’s still got his hands in his hair, but they aren’t tugging and twisting anymore, and he’s still got his face pressed against his legs, but now it’s much more of an exhausted collapse than an effort to hide his tears. 

It hits Jason then, exactly how tired he is. It’s gotta be only a couple of hours until sunrise, if that, and he hasn’t slept at all. Timmy’s also gotta be tired as hell, what with all the emotions and the not-eating and the sleeping on the asphalt. 

Tim’s warm, shuddering frame is tucked against Jason’s fully, his breathing evening out. Jason cards a tentative hand through his hair and Tim sighs, followed by a gentle, less-raw sniffle. He doesn’t know how long he sits there on the couch with the kid collapsed against him, but eventually Tim’s breathing normal and he’s totally asleep, passed out with his head half in Jason’s lap. 

As softly as he can manage, Jason shifts from under Tim and replaces his body with one of his two couch pillows. He tucks Timmy’s legs up onto the couch, and tosses the throw blanket over him. 

Jason runs a tired hand over his face. Shit, he really doesn’t know what he’s gonna do with the traumatized, brilliant kid passed out in his safehouse living room. But that’s a problem for Tomorrow Jason, who will have well-restedness and coffee on his side, so instead of dwelling on it, he heads into his bedroom and flops down on his bed face first. 

Timbo was a sweet kid, and yeah, okay, maybe he had grown just a little bit attached to him, but he wasn’t Bruce. He couldn’t just sweep stray kids off the street and keep them for the foreseeable future. It didn’t work like that. 

It didn’t. 

(It totally did.)


	6. Chapter 6 (Tim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys every time I get unmotivated, I go back and reread all y'all's comments, and I am so grateful to EVERYONE who's even clicked this story, seriously. Thank you guys SO MUCH.
> 
> Now, Tim's POV!!! 
> 
> Also, side note, Timmy's thinking is SUPER self-destructive, you guys. Stay mentally safe, please!

The only thing that Tim can think is ‘thank God I’m not about to get shot.’ 

He’s edged halfway out from behind the dumpster, and he’s just kinda sitting there, staring at the Red Hood. Tim wants to say something, anything, offer some sort of explanation or greeting or literally anything, but his brain is filling quickly with white noise and the only coherent thought his brain is capable of forming is ‘thank God I’m not about to get shot.’

And now, Jason’s talking to him, eyebrow raised quizzically, and Tim has no clue what words are coming out of his mouth. Crap. Crap cannoli on a stick. Great, now the Red-freaking-Hood is talking to him, expecting some sort of answer, or some type of explanation, and Tim cannot for the life of him force his mouth to form words. 

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the Red Hood, maybe it’s that less than a minute ago he was pretty certain he was about to have his brains blown out, maybe it’s the shock of getting caught in a grimy alley by his childhood hero, all grungy and smelly and gross, maybe it’s that now he has to explain that he can’t go home, maybe, maybe, maybe, it doesn’t really matter. Because Tim still cannot force his way past the buzzing in his ears to say anything at all. 

Tim thinks maybe he sees a brief flash of anger shadow the Red Hood’s face, but he can’t be sure, because then there’s just concern. A whole lot of concern. It’s completely foreign to him, and it sure isn’t helping the white noise in his brain, because what the heck is he supposed to do with concern?

If he doesn’t do anything, though, Jason’s probably gonna get frustrated, angry. He’s gonna think he’s stupid and slow and weird, and Tim can’t have that, because then the Red Hood might stop looking into the drugs. He might think he’s just some freaky kid.

So Tim forces himself to shuffled out from behind the dumpster. He tries to blink away all of the mental fuzz, and swallows to clear his throat.

“R-Red Hood? I, uh…I…” Tim looks away, down towards his shoes, and swallows again. “What’re you doing here?” Oh yeah, Tim, brilliant, how original, how inconspicuous. 

The Red Hood snorts and moves closer. Tim has to fight the instinct to stumble backwards, and reminds himself, this was Robin, this is Jason, this is the seventeen-year-old Red Hood, not an adult or a fully-fledged man or his father. 

“I’m fairly sure I asked you first, Timbo. I just stopped a mugging.” Tim turns away. So that’s what Jason had been saying to him earlier before he started forcing his brain into gear. The mental fuzz is almost gone now, though, and now he’s just tired and sore and feels gross. Wow, he feels gross. His skin feels like it’s crawling with ants. 

But also, the Red Hood asked him a question and now he has to answer. He certainly can’t be rude to someone with enough guns to supply a battalion tucked away on his person. 

“I wasn’t supposed to know about the drugs, and they were gonna test ‘em on me, and I couldn’t go home.” If his mom were here, she would smack him upside the head for the intense mumbling he’d just done. The Red Hood probably didn’t catch a single word, and he was gonna get annoyed and have to ask him again, and Tim would have to repeat himself, but all Tim wanted to do was curl up and go back to sleep. 

Actually, he wanted to shower too. God, he was so disgusting. He was so absolutely gross, and just thinking about it made him want to throw up or sob or both. 

“Whaddaya mean you couldn’t go home, Tim?” 

Tim glances up at the Red Hood, who somehow heard at least part of his mumbling, and oh crap. Jason Todd just looks so worried, and he isn’t really sure why, and his skin is nasty and his hair is greasy and he really just wants his bed. All of a sudden his lip is trembling and his eyes are getting watery, and if Tim cries in front of the Red Hood he’s probably just going to dissolve into an embarrassed puddle of embarrassment. 

“I wasn’t supposed to know about the drugs.” Tim tries again, screwing his mouth into an uncomfortable little knot to keep the tears away. He doesn’t understand why the Red Hood is still here, talking to him. He delivered the evidence and organized the files and didn’t let it slip at all that he knew his real name, so why was Jason Todd standing here with his helmet under his arm, looking at him with all these foreign expressions on his face? 

The Red Hood sighs and sticks the helmet back on his head, and oh, he’s gonna leave now, to go stop more crime or make more delicious food or something, and Tim isn’t disappointed, not even a little. Why would he be? 

“Okay, Timbo, we’re gonna go back to my safehouse and you’re gonna get cleaned up, and then you’re gonna tell me what’s going on, m’kay?” 

Well that was unexpected. 

What’s going on? Tim runs through the possibilities in his head, examines each factor and tries to procure a solution, just like he’s done thousands of times before. 

Well, okay, he’d said to tell him what’s going on, so that’s the most likely possibility. For one, he’s talking more about the drugs, and okay, okay, the Red Hood probably just wants to get a better picture of what happened with the Angel Juice. Maybe he thinks that something else went down? That’s all very reasonable and plausible, so Tim forces his head to dip into a nod and tries to make his body move. 

The Red Hood doesn’t move, and oh, crap, where is Tim supposed to walk? Does he walk behind and to the left, like he does with his father, or behind and to the right, like with his mom? Next to, maybe, like he does with business associates, or even ahead, like he has with other high society children at galas?

Tim glances at Jason, then towards the end of the alley, then back towards Jason, then towards his feet, and he does not have a single clue what to do now. He has to let the Red Hood start walking first, and then he’s gonna have to find the correct way to fall into place. 

Tim waits, the seconds stretching on, and his palms growing steadily sweatier. He can feel the Red Hood’s stare, and then all of a sudden, a gloved hand is resting oh-so-lightly on his shoulder. 

He isn’t sure why, but all of the tension melts right out of his body, and he sags a little under the hand. It’s just so warm and gentle, and it’s guiding him out of the alleyway and all of a sudden, they’ve stopped in front of the familiar safehouse door, and the hand is gone, disarming security systems, and Tim really can’t figure out why he misses it. 

The Red Hood pulls off his gloves and jacket and folds them across the back of a chair, turning to face him. “Alright, Timmers, how ‘bout a shower? No offense, but you don’t exactly smell like a field of daisies right now.” 

He sniffs a little bit, trying to catch a whiff, but he doesn’t care all that much, the word ‘shower’ bouncing around in his head like the DVD screen. Shower. A shower. He’s gonna get to scrub the invisible ants off his skin, he’s gonna finally feel clean again!

Offhandedly, he mutters “Most species of daisy are odorless.” But all he really wants to think about is stripping his skin of sweat and grime and ridding his hair of that awful oiliness. 

He’s standing awkwardly in the Red Hood’s bathroom, and said vigilante has retreated to somewhere else in his apartment, calling back a “You read that in a Better Homes & Gardens magazine, Timbo?” Tim snorts a little bit, covering his mouth. He can’t help the way that it curls upwards, just little bit. 

Jason’s back a couple of seconds later, setting a towel and a few folded articles of clothing on the bathroom counter. “Okay, left for hot water, right for cold. Uh, holler if you need anything.” He backs out of the room before Tim can get his ‘thank you’ to leave his mouth, shutting the door behind him. 

Finally, Tim can shrug out of the nasty T-shirt and jeans that have become totally encrusted with sweat and dirt. He turns the shower knob all the way to the left and steps under the spray with a sigh. 

The water is absolutely scalding, but he refuses to let it get even a little bit cooler, instead using the heat to rid himself of all of the accumulated grunge. He uses the bottle of off-brand body wash as sparingly as he can while still getting himself clean, not wanting to do anything to upset the Red Hood. 

The shampoo is also of the cheap variety, but honestly, at this point Tim’d be open to using dish soap to clean his hair. Anything to feel clean again. He tries to think about how to tell the Red Hood about the attempted drug test without sounding too pathetic, but can’t really force his brain to move fast enough, and he’s been wasting Jason’s water for ten minutes now, so it’s time to wrap up. 

Tim scrubs the last dregs of shampoo from his hair and shuts the water off, scrubbing the black nest with the threadbare towel that the Red Hood had left for him by the sink. 

He flushes a little bit once he realizes he’s about to use the man’s boxers, but there’s no way he’s going to slip back into his own crusty, sweaty pair, so he takes the setback and moves past it. The sweatpants are absolutely massive on him, and he has to roll both the ends of the pants as well as the waistband to even be able to walk without tripping. The shirt reaches his knees. They’re also the softest clothing items he thinks he’s ever worn. 

Tim hangs the towel on the hooks behind the door and shuffles out of the bathroom and into the main room of the safehouse, where Jason has set a bowl of soup and a glass of water at his table/ 

“Right, then, Timbers, how do you like avgolemono?” He asks, with a glance towards the bowl of yellowish soup. Tim’s a little confused as to why Jason’s feeding him again, since it wasn’t like he was providing any new evidence, but the spaghetti was incredible and he’s getting hungry, so he slides into the chair without looking the gift horse in the mouth. 

He used the spoon to stir the soup, apparently called ‘avgolemono,’ looking down at the thick yellow substance a little bit curiously. He’s never even heard of this food, but at the same time, he rarely ate anything but mac n’ cheese, cereal, canned chicken soup, and Mrs. Mac’s leftover casseroles. “What’s that?” 

“Chicken-lemon-rice soup. ‘S good, a Greek thing.” Jason says as Tim is lifting a small spoonful to his mouth. It’s absolutely delicious, warm and savory and possibly even better than the spaghetti from the other night. 

The next spoonful he took was way bigger, overflowing with the thick soup. “This is so good!” He breathed out, trying to remember his manners, but sure meaning it a whole heck of a lot. The soup was incredible. 

“Glad you like it, Timbo. I’m gonna grab a quick shower now.” Tim freezes. 

“You’re gonna leave me in your safehouse, like, unsupervised?” 

Crap, now that sounded suspicious, and he really didn’t mean it to, he was just surprised, that’s it, and he rushes to correct himself. 

“Not, uh, not that I would do anything! Or anything like that. Just, ya know. I won’t do anything, I swear. I was just…” He trailed off before he could start stuttering uncontrollably and wouldn’t that be even more embarrassing. 

Jason chuckled, though, so he felt the blush recede a little bit from his burning cheeks. “Timbo, I’m fairly certain that if you were gonna try anything, you already would’ve, yeah? Also, you already had a chance to download all my files, and ya didn’t, and I’m sweaty as fuck. So you eat your soup, and I’ll go get cleaned up, and then we can talk.” 

Right. Talk. They needed to talk, about the drugs. And that meant, of course, that they needed to talk about his parents, and that was something he really, really did not want to even think about. He ducked his head to hide the shame, and all but whispered a little “okay” so Jason didn’t think he’d gone all nonverbal again, because the brain fuzz was dormant right now, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

Tim slurped down the soup at an insane speed the moment that the bathroom door closed, forgoing all manners to fill his stomach, which was protesting now that he’d remembered he was hungry. Once he’d drained every last drop of the soup, he stood to wash his dishes in a ritual that was painfully familiar. 

The mental image of every time he was left alone, nanny-less and family-less flashed through his mind in a slideshow of images. His one lone bowl, cup, plate, fork, and spoon sitting on the counter where he could reach them, before he would finally put them away the night before his parents returned. His one tiny table setting of microwavable food, alone on the big, empty, Drake Manor main table, surrounded by nothing but tucked-in chairs. The times he would become so unbearably lonely he would turn on the little handheld radio and set it across the table, tuning it to some stupid talk show just to hear somebody’s voice, so that he could pretend that maybe his mom and dad were here with him. 

But it was different, this time, because the shower was running in the background, and car horns were blaring outside of the window, and this hadn’t been a crappy, microwaved meal. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the shower shut off and the bathroom door open behind him. 

He jumped a little when Jason came up behind him, stuttering out a surprised question. “I, uh…uh…where do the dishes go?” He turned around to face the Red Hood, who was wearing a much more generic looking domino mask, one that lacked the freaky white lenses. 

“Top left for the cup, top right for the bowl, and the drawer behind you is silverware. Thanks, Timbo.” Tim offered him a tentative smile and stretched up to slide the dishes into their respective slots. The cabinets were pretty empty of any other dishes.

Jason stretched around him, reaching for some item from the shelf by Tim’s head, and he couldn’t stop his little flinch away from the movement, even though this was his old Robin, the Robin who cared about nothing but protecting the people of Gotham. Even if he shot some of the bad ones now, this was still the same person. The same boy. 

Jason filled two chipped mugs with water and stuck them in the microwave, reaching into another cupboard for teabags. Tea. Tim hadn’t had any in a while, usually preferring coffee to keep him running after a late night photographing the Bats

“D’you like jasmine?” the Red Hood asked him, and he nodded a little awkwardly, not really sure what he was supposed to do. Tim didn’t really like standing around with nothing to do, but he HATED it when other people were doing things. 

The Red Hood glanced at him and then nodded towards the threadbare couch. “Wanna wait over there?” 

“…Sure.” Slowly, he shuffles over to the couch and perches on the edge, trying to take up as little space as possible. He doesn’t know Jason’s couch rules, doesn’t know how he’s meant to sit on it. At home, there’s only one couch he’s allowed to sit on (the others need to stay pristine and unwrinkled for any guests) and it’s bright white, so any speck of dirt or dust would come back to bite him once his parents got home. He knew that from very painful experience, and it wasn’t one that he was itching to repeat. 

Tim tried to breathe as smoothly as possible, trying to stop before it got all short and choppy and he had a total freakout in the middle of the Red Hood’s safehouse. Soon enough, the vigilante was walking towards him holding two steaming mugs of tea, and ok, this was good, Tim had something warm to wrap his hands around to mask the fact that they were gonna be shaking violently soon enough. 

The Red Hood flopped out across his couch like a really giant rag doll, kicking his feet up and mussing the pillows. Oh. So maybe the couch rules were lax here. Tentatively, Tim scooted back a little bit and allowed himself to slump into what his mom would consider an abhorrent posture. 

Jason turned to look at him. “Right then, Kid, why were you napping in that alley?” Tim’s grip tightened on the mug and he felt himself go all cold, a pit opening in his stomach that wanted to swallow him whole. 

“I…I just…” He couldn’t do anything but stammer, fingers starting to tremble. What was he even gonna say? Tim didn’t want to think about his mom’s stony cold expression, his dad pulling him up by the collar of his shirt, his palm connecting with the side of his face. He just didn’t want to think about it, Drake Manor, the cold marble floors, the empty dining table, his mom’s heels clicking down the hallway, getting closer, closer, closer, closer…

He felt like his mouth was filling with cotton, scratchy and useless. 

The Red Hood was talking to him, in a slow, low voice, the kind you use on a frightened dog, or a rabbit, or a toddler having a meltdown at daycare. He was saying something about his clothes and him not going home, and Tim’s hands were shaking, shaking, shaking, the hot tea burning his fingers where a few drops were escaping the cup. He wanted out, he wanted to leave, he wanted his camera and a big empty rooftop. 

What he didn’t want was for Jason Todd/Robin/Red Hood to see how freaking pathetic Tim Drake was. He didn’t want to think about the Angel Juice and his mom and dad in any context but that of a case to be solved. 

“I…I wasn’t supposed to know. About the drugs.” He finally choked out, glancing up to see if the Red Hood had heard him. “I um, I asked about the…the profits. The extra ones. When I was little. Mom told me to forget it.” He remembers her rejection, her telling him that he’d better shut up and forget about it, the steely cold of her eyes, not unfamiliar but still painful. He’d thought maybe he’d found something, maybe she would be proud of him for taking an interest in the company. 

He had been so freaking stupid. 

“I…uh, they left again, after that. For another trip. Two months exploring East Asia.” They hadn’t called, that trip. He remembers. He remembers all of their trips, all of their phone calls. They always promised to call on his birthday and Christmas, but rarely did. Sometimes, they texted, telling him it would be another week, another month, that ‘Timothy, there is no need to remind us that we promised to be home for Christmas, but it simply isn’t possible.’

“Is that when you learned about the whole drug thing?” The Red Hood’s voice breaks through his memories, and Tim shakes his head, takes a sip of the still-hot tea. It’s soothing, feels nice on his throat, clears some of the cotton in his mouth. 

“No, no I uh, I went to the library. Because I was suspicious? Learned how to like, hack. I guess. Next time they were home I broke into my Dad’s laptop and downloaded everything onto my own computer.” Jason lets out a low whistle at this, and it almost sounds like he’s…impressed? It’s kind of ridiculous, given that he’d saved Gotham fifty times over. Tim swats the thought away like a fly. 

“Damn, Timbo. That’s hardcore.” Something warm blooms in his chest, something that feels unfamiliar, but quite pleasant. He can feel a little smile spread across his face despite the shaking hands and the uncomfortable thoughts of his mom and dad swirling in his head. 

“I, uh, thanks.” He lets himself bask in the warmth of the compliment for another moment before he continues. He’s only here getting fed to offer information, he needs to remember.

“But um, anyways. I kept tabs on it all, y’know, took some pictures and stuff too. But see, uh, I’ve never really paid my parents back yet, ya know?” He hadn’t. He feels a wave of shameful guilt wash over him, because here he is, spilling his guts to the Red Hood, giving up all of Jack and Janet’s secrets despite the fact that he’ll probably owe them for raising him for the rest of his life. 

The Red Hood is frowning at him, and Tim’s about to try and clarify when he speaks. “No, Timbo, whaddaya mean paid them back yet? Like, for a new computer or something?” Tim can feel his stomach twist in confusion, before he realizes. Jason Todd was Robin by the time he was Tim’s age, watching Batman’s back and saving Gotham. He had never been in debt to Bruce, having been paying him back every night he was Robin. 

Fantastic, now he’s gonna get to hear all about how Tim’s been sitting doing nothing to help his family or his city for the entire thirteen years he’s been alive. 

“No, for like, y’know. Being born. Living in the house? Eating the food they buy me? Um, clothes. My bedroom? Schoolbooks, regular books. That kind of stuff. I’m in their debt, you know? That’s…that’s how it is?” 

Tim could feel his throat closing a little bit, his tongue suddenly feeling a little too heavy as Jason shook his head and set his mug down very deliberately. Did he say something wrong? Or did…was…he didn’t KNOW. He didn’t KNOW what was wrong, or why the Red Hood was suddenly looking at him so seriously from behind the domino. 

“Tim,” he said slowly, staring him right in the eyes. Tim can feel his palms sweating, growing slick around the mug.

“Tim, I…could you…okay. Look, you don’t have to look at me, or say anything, but I…I need you to listen to me. You do not owe your parents ANYTHING, okay? NOTHING. It was their choice to have a child, it was their choice to take that step, and because they made that decision, they are required, BY LAW, to take care of you. Do you…do you get that?”

He cannot bring himself to say a word, to nod or shake his head or look away or anything. His hands feel like they’re both clutching leaf blowers, shaking so hard he’s afraid he’s gonna fling the mug away. 

He doesn’t…he doesn’t understand what Jason’s saying to him, just doesn’t get it. Logically, all of the words string together and make proper sentences that sound reasonable, but Tim cannot make them click in his head, it’s impossible. He KNOWS that it’s a law that parents watch for their children, he KNOWS that it was their choice to have him, but it just doesn’t make any SENSE. 

“Timbo, taking care of someone, taking care of your kid, that doesn’t just mean they make sure you’re alive, okay? That means…” Jason trails off, searching for the words, Tim thinks. His blue-green eyes get this far-away look in them for a moment, before it clears away and his gaze is as sharp as ever, boring into him like a drill. 

“That means, not just having clothes and food and shelter, but making sure that you’re happy. As happy as possible. Not just alive, okay? And not just content either. Happy. Comfortable. Doing their very best to give you as much happiness and security as possible. And, Timbers, it’s never, ever, ever an obligation. It isn’t even a trade. You just DO it. And your parents…”

Tim stares down at his hands, letting his hair fall in a way that hides his face, gives him a small wall. The words that are coming out of the Red Hood’s mouth spin around his head n a whirlwind of confusion and he isn’t sure why Jason is saying all of this to him, isn’t even sure if it’s true or not. 

“Tim, your parents should take care of you because they love you. Your family should take care of you just because. Not to incur or fulfill a debt, and not because you’re an asset and not for any other reason than just because they care.”

Tim keeps staring down, keeps letting the words spin around his head like fast-moving clouds, unattainable and wispy. He really can’t even imagine Jack and Janet doing anything at all without some sort of foreseeable reward or debt, cannot even picture it. His stone-cold mother and his constantly angry father, just doing something out of the kindness of their hearts? An unattainable daydream, if that. 

Tim can feel tears welling in his eyes, and aw crap, this doesn’t help at all. He wonders if other kids, from other families, grew up with their moms and dads loving them just because they wanted to. He wonders if that’s how it was for Jason Todd when he lived with Bruce Wayne. 

And now, Tim’s never gonna get the opportunity to have his parents love him, be proud of him, maybe hug him or ruffle his hair or set a gentle hand on his shoulder, because here he is, turning them in, placing him even further in their debt than he was before. Jack and Janet are either gonna die or go to Blackgate, and God, they’re gonna HATE him. 

They’re gonna hate him so freaking much, and all that effort, all those years trying to make them proud, trying to make them care, and the Red Hood is saying that they already should by default, it’s all gone. 

Tim can’t help the small sniffle, but he turns to look at Jason, letting his hair move so that he’s facing him again. 

“I…” Tim’s breath hitches dangerously, chest all tight and eyes wet. The Red Hood frees his mug, going cold now, from his grasp and sets it on the table, and his hands are so slow and gentle that Tim almost bursts into tears right there. 

“Timmy…”

“I…Hood…they wanted me to…to test it.” The last three words Tim can barely bring himself to say, because his parents WERE gonna test it on him. They didn’t just not love him, didn’t just not care, he was so completely expendable that they were going to use him as a guinea pig for their homemade drug intended for children. 

“Christ, Timmy…” Jason whispers, and he sounds sad, the concern is back in his face, and Tim just needs to finish, he just needs to tell him so he can be done, so he can forget about it. 

“That’s why…that’s why I can’t go home. I…I kinda…climbed out my window and came here. I just…I’m just so tired of being SCARED.” Is all Tim can choke out before he absolutely crumbles, pressing his face to his thighs in a stupid, futile attempt to hide his mortifying breakdown. 

He pulls at his hair, tugging and tugging until it hurts, until he has something to focus on besides his burning eyes. His parents didn’t want him, they didn’t love him, they were gonna stick him with their opioids and not even care at all what happened. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, hecan’tbreathe, his lungs are not working, they feel too small and too tight, and they won’t expand. 

Jason’s trying to murmer soothing words but Tim can’t even hear them at all, too focused on trying to make his lungs EXPAND, on trying to stop the tears from pooling on the borrowed sweatpants, and he would be more embarrassed but God, what could be more embarrassing than your hero finding out you were such a terrible kid, such a miserably useless person that your own mom and dad don’t even want you? 

Tim can’t stop the loud, miserable sob that tears through his entire body, and then there’s a weight on his back and he’s flinching away on instinct, but it’s just a hand and it’s not hitting or pinching or hurting, it’s just sitting there, and his skin feels like a livewire, but the hand on his back is just so NICE, so another wet sob rips through him. 

Jason Todd is rubbing small, soothing circles into his back and God, Tim thinks, I haven’t cried in front of anyone since I was six. He has a vague memory of his nanny soothing him when he had tripped and scraped a knee and cried, but he’s never had such a meltdown in front of anybody, and this isn’t just anybody, it’s his Robin. 

Then, there’s a warm solid frame pressing up against him and Tim whimpers pitifully, tears spilling freely down his face, which is still pressed into his legs. But the Red Hood is so warm and so soothing, and Tim’s just so freaking exhausted, so freaking miserable, that all of the muscles holding him up just stop working, and now, oh, he’s pressed against Jason Todd. 

Jason Todd, who’s wrapping his arms around him and making soft shushing noises, and Tim’s scalp doesn’t hurt anymore, and he’s warm and feels kinda heavy and his eyes are drooping, the tangled knot of yarn in his chest loosening, letting it expand again. 

A hand runs through his hair softly, and he sighs, warm and utterly spent. His eyes slide shut, and it’s only moments later that he drifts out of consciousness, aware of only the Red Hood’s steady breathing and warm arms underneath him. 

When Tim wakes the next morning, tucked up on the couch with a blanket pulled over him, he’s warm and sleepy, throat and eyes a little dry. 

And…

Crap. 

He’d just cried his eyes out on top of the Red Hood. 

Crap, crap, crap, he was Dead, capital D. Light was streaming through the window in the kitchen and somebody was snoring softly. The Red Hood. Sleeping. 

Tim needed to leave, like, immediately. He had bawled his eyes out after eating the Red Hood’s food and using his shower and now, he was gonna be taking his clothes, but he couldn’t stick around and face the mortification, or the way that Robin was gonna be looking at him, with disappointed eyes, eyes that said ‘I knew you were weak.’

So Tim pulled on his discarded shoes, scribbled a thank-you/apology note on a napkin, and made quick work of the security pad by the door. 

As soon as he was out of the elevator on the ground floor, Tim broke into a sprint towards the library and didn’t stop running until he was across the Sprang. 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY I SWEAR IT LEADS TO FLUFF I SWEAR IT


	7. Chapter 7 (Barbara)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, really, again, the response to this fic is keeping me going! Thank you to everyone who has read this story. Really. 
> 
> Also, enter BARBARA! I know, I know, all y'all want is Tim and Jason being buds, but I have a PLOT and it is IMPORTANT (I think). Anyways, I love Babs, and I love the relationship for her and Tim that I've written and I hope you guys like it too. The chapter coming next is just straight-up Tim kicking ass, so something to look forward to!

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Barbara loved her job at the Gotham Public Library. 

She absolutely loved it. 

She’d been volunteering there since she was fourteen and was hired almost as soon as she was a legal adult. It let her read as much as she wanted, interact with Gotham’s citizens in a quiet environment, research her little heart out, and attend classes at Gotham U, plus, the pay wasn’t all that bad, not that she needed it. 

It also was quite convenient for her night job, giving her time and access to be able to sift through the more tedious files and get everything set and ready for Bruce, Dick, and Cass. 

But another thing that Barbara loved about the Gotham Public Library was Tim. 

Tim had shown up when she was sixteen and still a volunteer, tiny and brilliant and absolutely determined, way more mature than any other kid she’d ever met (cough cough Dick). For two entire months, Tim showed up every single day, ripping through computer science textbooks like they were E-Z Readers. 

She had only just taken on the mantle of Batgirl the last year, somehow managing to convince Bruce and Dick to train her, and where she certainly wasn’t bad out on the streets, her strength had always been computers. Hacking into any files Batman and Robin needed, tracking anything anywhere, stealing and scrubbing camera footage. She was good as Batgirl, but she was no Batman, so when this way-too-small way-too-smart kid showed up at the library, it was a way for her to really use the skills that she loved and valued the most. 

Even now that she was Oracle and training the spunky Stephanie Brown to fulfill her old mantle of Batgirl, training Tim with computers felt like a gift. Steph was bright and full of a crime-fighting spark, but Barbara had never met another person with the same shared aptitude for comp sci as Tim. 

Two months into knowing and befriending Tim, he vanished for two weeks. Just wiped right off the map. 

His phone had dinged with a text, his eyes had lit, up and he had bounced right out the door, calling over his shoulder that he’d be back soon. 

She’d been worried, of course, but really, she was sixteen and juggling school, Batgirl, the library, and her own personal life, so she never looked into it, thinking maybe he had gone on a vacation of some sort. After all, when it came down to it, Tim was just another patron, and she didn’t even know his last name. 

Two weeks later, he’d shown up again, smile a little duller, voice a little quieter, but still there. He’d asked if she would keep teaching him computers, and Barbara agreed. Why wouldn’t she?

A routine was set, at some point. Tim would come after school every day but Monday, and he would usually show up both Saturday and Sunday, but always at least one of them. Sometimes they did computers. Sometimes he just pulled a stack of books and read through them. Sometimes he did homework. But he always showed up and he always left just before closing. 

Every couple of months, though, Tim would vanish. Usually just for a few weeks, but sometimes up to five. He would visit the library sparingly during those weeks, and she never asked why he was gone. Tim always made sure to be there at least twice a week though, even if it wasn’t for exceedingly long. 

His smile was always a little tighter, his hands a little shaky, his voice hesitant and cowed. Once in a while there were bruises, ones that worried Barbara not just as Batgirl, but also as a friend. Because Tim was a friend, and a good one. 

Once, she tried asking him where the bruise under his sweater sleeve came from. Barbara received a stuttered response about a run in the park before Tim abruptly stood and declared that he had to be home for dinner, despite the fact that it was three in the afternoon. 

He hadn’t come back to the library for three days, and she had never asked again. 

Objectively, she knew that with her skill set and the resources she had at her disposal, she could find out anything she wanted about Tim, starting with his last name. But she was a library employee at that point, and Tim was technically just a patron, and if he didn’t want to tell her about himself, she had to respect it, no matter how much she hated to. 

Now, though?

Now was a different story. 

Tim had come into the library with a massive purple handprint on the side of his face, wearing grimy clothes and absolutely reeking, stuttering and subdued and both Barbara Gordon and Oracle had had enough. 

Barbara had felt a little guilty, setting up the desktop to capture a few shots of Tim’s face while he was hacking into the satellite, but every time she considered maybe just shutting the quick program down before letting him have a go at NASA, she glanced at Tim’s half-swollen face in her periphery and brushed the thought aside. 

Of course, confronting him about the bruises didn’t go fantastically, which only served to further her suspicions, but she had her frontal face shots for the recognition software to run a scan, so she spent the rest of her time at the library explaining the complex tricks she had learned in her last Linear Algebra III lecture at Gotham U. 

Tim was a whiz with math, and Barbara had no doubt that he would go on to easily surpass her repertoire in academics. It also was her go-to method of calming him down when he worked himself into a state. 

It was painful to let Tim walk out of the library at close, with his bruises and dirty clothes and oily hair, but she was supposed to be meeting up with Dick and Bruce at the manor before they started patrol and she started being Oracle. And she had a facial scan to run on the Batcomputer. 

By the time Barbara made it back to the Batcave it was pushing nine o’clock and dark out. Bruce was suiting up already, of course, but Dick was lounging around the living room upstairs, trying to coax a disgruntled Damian into watching an episode of Scooby Doo with him. 

Damian was scowling at his older brother, but he hadn’t made any move to exit the living room, so clearly, he was secretly basking in all of his favorite sibling’s attention. 

Dick’s face brightened when she wheeled in. “Babs!” He exclaimed, catapulting off the couch with a grin. “You’re here early! Look,” he turned to a still-scowling Damian, who nodded at Barbara in greeting. “I’m showing Dami Scooby Doo!” 

Damian tutted, crossing his arms. “I am NOT actually WATCHING this show, Grayson, and I do not see how you can stand to consider this garbage ‘enjoyable media.’” Dick ruffled his brother’s hair with a grin. 

“It’s a classic, Little D. Anyways,” And now Barbara had the full force of Dick’s attention. “What’re you doing here early?” She sighed, pushing her glasses up. 

“I actually needed to talk to you. I have a facial recognition scan to run on the Batcomputer.” Dick frowned, tilting his head, and where Damian was now pretending to pay attention to the cartoon on the TV, she could see the way his eyes lit up with interest. 

“Is it case related?” She shook her head, almost grinning as Damian’s expression flattened. 

“No, uh, actually it’s a library thing. I wanted to ask you about it.” Dick nodded, understanding flitting across his face. They had grown up together, dated each other, worked together as vigilantes. He understood that she wanted to talk to him alone. 

“I’ll meet ya down there in a minute then.” Dick turned back to Damian, this time to try to cajole him into going to bed early (fat chance of that) and Barbara wheeled away towards the elevator. By the time she was back in the cave, Bruce was fully dressed in the Batsuit and hunched over a spray of files at his workstation. 

He looked up when she wheeled into the room and nodded, but that was it, totally immersed in his detective-work. She didn’t really mind, that only meant that he wouldn’t be trying to eavesdrop on the conversation she was about to have with Dick. 

Barbara took her place behind the computer, pulling up the software that she wrote herself and plugging the drive into the USB port, Tim’s photos ready to be uploaded. Usually, she would do this kind of stuff at the Clock Tower, with her own personal setup and no Bats involved, because Barbara wasn’t actually working a case, just trying to make sure a friend (a kid) was okay. 

But on this, she wanted a second opinion. 

It was too personal, a little too close, and Bruce had provided several examples of how things can go badly when you’re too close to a case. Because she knew Tim, and because she cared about him, she was prone to go grasping for straws, or looking for things that weren’t there. 

(The handprint on the side of his FACE wasn’t exactly a ‘straw’ to grasp at, but Barbara is a detective, so she is going to conduct herself as such.)

A couple of seconds later, Dick bounds into the cave with a jovial “Hiya, Bruce!” and a flip, for good measure. He receives a grunt in return, but no nod. 

“So, Babs, what’s going on? Why d’you need the facial recognition software? You have your own FRS at the Clock Tower, not that I’m not glad to see you.” She sighed and pushed her glasses back up, shaking her head. 

“I told you it isn’t a case, but it’s still an issue, and I needed an objective eye. Plus, I have an update to run on the Batcomputer anyways.” Dick flopped down in the computer chair, frowning a little bit. 

“Right, you said it was a library thing? ‘S there a criminal or something doing deals at the library, because Bruce and I can track him down tonight.” He looked concerned for her, which was sweet but unnecessary. 

“Just the opposite, actually. Remember the kid I told you about, Tim? The smart one, who I was teaching computer science to?” Dick nodded thoughtfully, probably trying to remember everything she’d ever said about Tim. Despite what his public persona looked like, Dick was smart, quick to catch little details and remember tiny, seemingly insignificant clues. He may be a bubbly ball of sunshine, but he sure wasn’t some stupid rich airhead. Or, well, most of the times. 

After a couple of seconds, Dick nodded again, firmer this time. “Yeah…yeah okay. Tim, little kid right? Thirteen now? Uh…good at math, a super genius, great with computers…likes…photography? And also space?” He tilted his head and looked at her inquisitively. “Why, did something happen to him?”

She raised her palms as if to say ‘who knows?’ and sighed. “That’s the problem, Dickie, I don’t know. He shows up sometimes with these bruises, and” she shook her head and gestured to the open program that she hadn’t started running yet on the Batcomputer, “after not coming in yesterday, he showed up in these dirty clothes with this huge handprint on the side of his face, and I’m worried about him.”

Dick’s brow creased like it always did when he was worried about something, and he ran a hand through his curls. “So, uh, what do you think’s going on? And the FRS?” he nodded towards the facial recognition software. She shook her head again. Barbara was rarely at a loss, but now? With Tim? Finding out who he was like this seemed…unethical. And she was literally Oracle, her entire night was spent digging through people’s lives without their consent! 

“I…I snapped a few pictures. Look, Dick, I don’t…” she swallowed thickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know who he is. Like his last name, anything. He’s just a kid, and the library is my actual job, so it’s always felt wrong to go digging around in his life. But now…with the bruises…”

Dick looked at her with his big puppy eyes, like he understood. Sometimes, she really did miss dating him, but he was practically family at this point, and with their respective night jobs, it just couldn’t ever work out. “Babs, I get it. You can’t just do nothing, I get it. Pull up the pictures and we’ll see what we can find out.”

“I…yeah. Okay. Here.” Barbara tapped the touchpad and pulled up the faceshots of Tim from earlier that afternoon. Dick’s face crinkled in confusion. 

“I don’t think you’re gonna need to run that software, Babs. That’s little Timmy Drake. He’s our neighbor.”

She felt as if someone had dumped a cup of ice down her back. Barbara shook her head, trying to process. “Wait, Dick. Drake, like, Drake Industries? THE Drakes? I…that doesn’t make any sense!” If Tim was the child of one of Gotham’s most high-profile families, what was he doing at the library in dirty clothes with bruises on his arms and face? Were his parents even home? Or were they…were Jack and Janet Drake the problem?

She’d shaken their hands at galas at least a half a dozen times, seen them on the covers of Gotham’s magazines, and she had never had any clue at all that they’d had a kid. A kid that Dick apparently knew of, a kid who was his NEIGHBOR?

Dick didn’t look any more clued in than she did, face still crinkled. “Babs, I dunno. That bruise in the picture looks pretty bad.” He learned closer to the computer screen, where Tim’s headshots were still pulled up. She tugged at her ponytail in frustration. 

“D’you think they could be…could they have given him that handprint?” He rubbed at his eye and zoomed in on one of the photos, looking a little lost and not at all bouncy and bubbly, which was entirely uncharacteristic of Dick Grayson. 

“I…I don’t really know the Drakes all that well, I’ve only really met them at galas, but I’ve known they’re our neighbors, and Tim’s always seemed like a sweet kid. I couldn’t imagine…” Dick trailed off uncertainly. Barbara understood. She couldn’t imagine anybody hitting their kid, but much less two such high-profile members of Gotham’s community. 

“Oh, what am I gonna do?” Barbara groaned, planting her face in her hands before looking back up to stare at the picture of Tim and his bruise again. “Dick, he comes to the library almost every day, but every few months there’ll be two or three weeks when he barely comes at all? Should we check…like, check into the Drakes’ financial history? Travel history? See if anything suspicious is going on?”

Dick frowned a little, chewing his lip contemplatively. “Yeah okay. What if you did a quick scan of the Drakes’ lives after patrol is wrapped up, and we can regroup tomorrow afternoon and go over everything, make a plan? The Drake estate is next to ours, I could coerce Damian into going over there and trying to weasel some info out of Timmy.”

Ok. That sounded like a good, levelheaded game plan, one that they would make even if she didn’t personally know Tim, even if she hadn’t spent thousands and thousands of hours getting to know the shy little kid who also had the guts to hack any database on the planet. “Alright. Thanks, Dick. I appreciate it.” 

His bright grin was back, and aimed at her. “Anytime, Babs! Now I gotta go suit up. Don’t let Dami down here, he has to get up early tomorrow for a playdate with Jon!”

Barbara hummed her assent as she pulled the Tim drive out of the Batcomputer and plugged in her update drive, finally doing what she was actually supposed to tonight. She would run comms from here tonight and have one of them drive her home before they all turned in. 

Not even a half hour later, Nightwing and Batman were rolling out of the cave, and Barbara Gordon became Oracle. 

For a while, all she was picking up were muggings, a few shootouts, all low-profile incidents that B and N could handle no problem. Until just a few minutes after midnight, when she sources a massive explosion over at Drake Industries. 

Absolutely brilliant. 

An explosion at the headquarters of the Drakes, the very family she was just hashing out suspicions of with Dick? Whose kid just showed up at the library looking like he’d gotten in a fight with Clayface or something? Once is an incident, twice is a coincidence, but three times is a pattern. Something is going on with the Drakes, and Barbara has a feeling that she might be about to find out what. 

“Hey, N,” she calls through the comms. 

“Here, O. Got something for us?” She pulls up security footage of the Drake building, and oh. Isn’t THAT just fantastic. A blurry figure in a bright red helmet and a motorcycle jacket, waltzing right into the building, only a few minutes ago. 

Better not send B, unless she wants the night to end in another dramatic showdown peppered with gunfire. 

“Just you for this one, N. Explosion over at the Drake Industries building, Diamond District. Uh, Red Hood’s involved. Batman,” her fingers fly over the keyboard, searching for something to send Bruce off to that isn’t a wild goose chase. “I’ve got a robbery, Upper West Side, by the hospital, Schnapp and Cameron.” 

Batman grunts his assent and switches his comm off, probably brooding because Jason’s off blowing things up and everybody’s trying to keep him from being involved. 

Nightwing is talking in her ear again, the rushing sound the only indication that he’s running across rooftops and still able to chatter away. “-Drake Industries building? That’s Timmy’s parents’ building, do you think it could be connected?”

She shrugs even though he can’t see. “I dunno, N. But I don’t have a great feeling about this. It seems kind of off, but I haven’t had a chance to run through the Drakes’ lives yet, so it isn’t like I have any leads. Maybe Hood’s just having a night.” 

Dick snorted humorlessly over the comm line. Jason was always a touchy subject, even though they weren’t on bad terms right now. Even though, she thinks with a pang, he and Bruce weren’t the only ones to lose a family member in Ethiopia. 

He’d come back from the dead and it had been a miracle, a stroke of incredible luck that the Bats just weren’t prone to, but he’d come back with a vendetta, full of rage, missing something that made him the cute, spunky kid that had been Robin. She supposes that being beat to death and blown up would do that to you, but Bruce was completely, stubbornly convinced that Jason had come back all wrong, a different person, a Frankenstein’s monster of a human being, not his son. Bruce couldn’t reconcile the memory of the son he loved with this newer, rawer Red Hood. 

He was wrong. Jason had come back different, but not a different person. He was angrier now, full of anguish and tragedy, but he was still Jason. She kept tabs on him, made sure he was okay, and she knew that he still read the same classic novels that he’d loved Before, still liked to cook and always tried his hardest to do right by the children of Gotham’s streets. 

Barbara knew that Dick still loved Jason as his brother, but he was stuck on this idea of Jason from Before, comparing every move that the Red Hood made with the Robin that he used to know. He kept trying to love the edition of Jason he remembered, struggling with the idea of having to get to know this newer version of him. 

Damian had never known Jason as Robin, and was completely indifferent to him Before, with no memories of the boy before he died. Now, Jason was just an enemy, one that caused his dad and brother a pain that he couldn’t understand. The same went for Cass, but she was much less hostile, able to easily read all of them with just a glance.

Barbara was trying to learn to work with the Red Hood, having hacked his comms before and occasionally sending him unsolicited information on cases he was working, if it was well past his own hacking skills. In return, he had never made much of an effort to cover his tracks from her. He’d known her more as his older brother’s girlfriend, a kind of weird half-sister. But in the end, he would always be a Bat to her, and Bats stuck together. 

“Right, Nightwing, almost there. Do you see the fire yet, should be at your…two o’clock?” The comm crackled back to life once Dick was close to the Drake building. 

“Yeah, O, I’m here. I uh, oh, shoot, here he comes. Nightwing out.” Before she could protest, Dick closed his comm line, leaving her sitting there in the Batcave as Bruce was off brooding and Dick was having what was probably a very volatile conversation with his younger brother. 

She tapped her fingers on the desk a couple of times, before she started pulling up all the info she could find within five minutes on the Drakes. Might as well be productive if the boys were gonna be uncommunicative drama queens. Boy, was Barbara missing Cass right about now, the levelheaded fifteen-year-old. 

The Drakes were very two public figures, she came to find out over the next couple of minutes. They made constant trips across the globe in search of ancient and priceless artifacts and attended every single gala they could when they were home in Gotham. 

Tim, however, was not very prominent anywhere amongst their finances or travel. In fact, Barbara was pretty certain that he was being left alone at their estate every single time his parents went AWOL. And, oh, shit, could that be the reason he would vanish for a few weeks every couple of months?

Barbara compiled a quick calendar of the Drakes’ vacations and business trips over the past five years and tried to remember the times when Tim would disappear. Well, there was these past couple of weeks, and the last time had to be about…three months ago. 

Bingo. 

Three months ago Tim had stopped coming in for about two weeks, which lined up perfectly with the time that his parents were in town. 

That was a four-year mystery, solved in a couple of minutes. 

She didn’t have time to look through anything else before a small beep let her know that Dick had turned his comm back on. 

“Oracle, come in.” His voice crackled across the line, sounding only slightly frantic.

“Nightwing, here. What happened, do you need backup?” Probably not, but it couldn’t hurt to ask. B’s tracker placed him still in the Upper West Side, so he had probably just picked up his patrol route through there. 

“No, but O, Hood said that he had blown up a drug lab. Like, an honest-to-god drug lab under Drake Industries. O, he…aargh!” Dick sounds like he’s about ten seconds from ripping all of his hair out, so Barbara does her best to force her way past her shock to make sure he doesn’t get frustrated and do something stupid and emotional. 

“Okay, back up. Tell me what happened, and I’ll look at it. But Nightwing, do you think that the Red Hood is a threat right now?” She could practically feel the tangled web of emotions rolling off of Dick, even from miles away in the jacked-up basement of Wayne Manor. He was frustrated, a little hurt, kind of annoyed, but she wasn’t going to be able to get a better picture until she knew how the conversation actually went. 

‘Cass would have kept her comm on,’ Barbara thinks, only a little bitterly, as she gives her ex-boyfriend a chance to collect himself. 

She can hear Dick’s breathing through the comms, and she’s just about to prompt him again when he starts to speak. “I met Hood on the rooftop, tried to confront him about the explosion. He told me he had blown up a drug lab, didn’t specify anything. I tried to offer help, y’know, tried to apologize for accidentally lecturing him, you know he’s always hated that, but he told me he had it covered and to fudge off, and then he just jumped off the rooftop, and I let him go.”

Barbara nodded to herself, fingers already tapping away on the keys of the Batcomputer, looking to see if she can pick up the signal from Jason’s hood, maybe track him to wherever he’s going. 

“Okay, did he sound like he was about to go blow up a half dozen warehouses for kicks, though? Or was he more organized?” Dick scoffs over the comm, and she winces a little. Maybe that could have been worded better. 

“When’s the Red Hood EVER sounded organized?” The little lilt in his voice tells her that Dick isn’t just talking about the Red Hood, he’s also talking about Robin, who could be so miserable at crisis management that he hit Batman with a tire iron. 

“Ok, but N, do you think that you need to go after him right now?” 

“I…no. No, I don’t think so, nobody was hurt in the explosion. But if he IS working a drug case that involves the Drakes, don’t you think we ought to look into it?” Barbara…didn’t know. On the one hand, if Jason had a high-profile case that he was working, one that involved Tim Drake, Barbara’s friend and Dick’s neighbor, one that involved explosions in the Diamond District, well out of his territory, then yeah, maybe they should at least get on the same page with him, at the very minimum to avoid butting heads. 

But on the other hand, this was Jason’s case fair and square, and they weren’t exactly on the same team. If none of them had even caught wind of a possible drug case, it wasn’t really fair to try and take it over, and it could push the Red Hood to start feuding with all of them again, instead of just this weird angry-avoidance thing he was doing with Bruce. And that could only end badly. 

She sighed and scrubbed her face. “Nightwing, I think you should probably just finish your patrol. I’ll keep tabs on the drug thing for now, look into it for…T’s sake, make sure that people aren’t getting hurt. But it isn’t our case.” 

There, that was quite reasonable. As a more neutral ground, she could look into the case just enough to make sure people were safe and look into the Tim thing separately. If the two items clashed, and the drug thing wound up being something massive, then she could contact Jason and try and establish a partnership of sorts. But at the same thing, she could avoid involving Bruce and Dick, and therefore avoid the soap opera that would be sure to occur if they clashed. 

Dick made a noise that meant he was okay with this but would be revisiting it later, and his tracker began moving back towards his patrol route. She quickly located and scrubbed all footage of the Red Hood at the scene of the explosion. 

The next morning, she would go to the library and hope that Tim showed up to make sure he was okay, even though he probably wouldn’t given that he was there yesterday, and his parents were still in town. It was going to be difficult not to drill him with questions when she did see him though, because he would probably bolt if he thought she had used her computer skills to look into him. 

The rest of Bruce and Dick’s joint patrol went smoothly with no other incidents or run-ins, and Dick drove her home almost as soon as they stepped back into the cave. 

Tomorrow was sure to be chock full of research, but as both Oracle and Barbara Gordon, she was ready. There wasn’t a problem in Gotham that she couldn’t take on. 

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	8. Chapter 8 (Tim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am posting early again because i require validation :(
> 
> Also because I need your opinions!!! Would you guys be interested in a Batfam monster hunter AU? Kind of a Supernatural AU-ish thing? Let me know pls!!! I won't get around to posting it for a lil, but I could see if maybe I could come up with a solid outline. It would be Tim-centric probably lol. 
> 
> Let me know how you like this chapter!!!

Tim was able to make his way to the Gotham Public Library relatively un-sweaty, which was an incredible improvement from yesterday. He hadn’t shed his guilt at stealing the Red Hood’s clothes in the long walk across the city, but okay, he could return them sometime soon, and anything was better than having to actually FACE him after bawling all over him like a baby late last night (early this morning?). 

Besides, now he had passed over all possible information pertaining to his parents’ drug operation, so there was no reason for him to need to see Jason any time soon. He tried not to let the thought make him sad. 

The food was good, okay?! And the couch was comfortable, and the Red Hood was just so inexplicably NICE to him. 

Barbara looked surprised to see him when he walked into the library that morning, around noon. Well, that was fair since he was usually only able to show up a handful of times when his parents were around, but now it wasn’t like he was going to hang out at home for a while. 

“Hey, Tim.” She said a little cautiously, fingers skittering to a stop over her keyboard. 

“Hi, Babs. What’s up?” he slid into his usual chair behind her desk and peered at her computer screen, where a reporter was holding a microphone and talking, the subtitles flashing across the screen, because this WAS a library after all. 

“I’m uh, checking the news. Wanna see?” He shifted closer as a response, shuffling his chair up next to her wheelchair. He just about fell right to the floor when he saw what the broadcast was about though, eyes widening in surprise. 

There, on the screen, was the Drake Industries building, only it was charred and blackened, the windows blown out onto the sidewalks. The reporter was yammering on about the timeframe and the damage and whatnot, but once the surprise had faded, a warm, pleased feeling welled up in his chest. 

Jason had done this. He was looking into the drugs, actually doing something about it. Tim would bet his left arm that the Red Hood had blown up the drug lab on the negative-third floor. And, as the subtitles rolling across the screen said, there hadn’t been a singular casualty. Not even one. 

The few people who had been in the upper floors were a bit shaken, but they’d all gotten out okay and the building was as structurally sound as it could be, not at risk of toppling over and injuring anyone nearby. 

Tim was…Tim was so, SO, happy. And okay, maybe he shouldn’t be all that thrilled with the destruction of his parents’ building, with what could have been a dangerous explosion, but he just cannot help it. Finally, it’s something tangible, something certain, something that cripples the Angel Juice business and is actual proof that this is all going to be over, that this is all going to end. 

He does his very best to school his features, so Babs doesn’t think he’s a weirdo or a sadist or something like that, but God, the drug lab was GONE. No more Angel Juice was getting made any time soon. 

Babs glances at him curiously, and boy is he glad he’s never told her his last name because then he really wouldn’t have any excuse for the indifferent expression he’s plastered on his face right now. 

“Wow, uh, there usually aren’t any massive explosions like this over in the Diamond District, huh?” He nods towards the screen, looking for some way to distract from the fact that he’s brimming with happiness right now. 

She hums, turning back to the broadcast for a few seconds before clicking the window closed. “Well, y’know, this IS Gotham City.” He lets out a breathy chuckle as he rises to shift his chair back in place, giving Barbara her own space back. “So, Tim,” she turns towards him, eyebrows raised. “Is it pajama day or something?” 

Tim has to actively fight to stop his eyes from going wide. He hadn’t even thought about how weird it would look for him to show up wearing clothes that were probably something like six sizes too big, especially sweatpants, of all things. Think, think, think, Tim, THINK!

“Oh, uh, they’re my dad’s.” He smiles a little bashfully, picking at the shirt. “I was out of sleep clothes so I just…borrowed his. Forgot to change this morning I guess.” It’s the best excuse he can convincingly swing on such short notice. As if he would ever be allowed in his dad’s closet. As if Jack even owned a pair of sweatpants, too. Sometimes he wondered if Jack and Janet were actually robots who didn’t sleep, just plugged into the wall and charged up overnight. They had probably been born in business clothes. 

But Barbara seems to accept this, as far as he can tell. It’s not like he’s ever mentioned his parents in any more than passing in front of her. As far as he knows, Barbara doesn’t know a thing about his family, including that his last name is Drake. He’s never told her and she’s never mentioned it, and if she ever found out he’s pretty certain that he would have noticed the change in behavior. 

She drums her fingers on the desk for a minute before sighing. “My dad’s having a field day with this, right now. The police haven’t been able to get a hold of the Drake family yet, just all their legal sharks. Nobody can tell who actually caused the explosion.”

Tim suppresses a wince at the mention of his family. They’re going to be forced to stick around Gotham for a while to avoid any bad publicity of abandoning their headquarters after this ‘travesty.’ They also are a legal whirlwind when they want to be. Tim feels bad for Barbara’s dad, the Commissioner. He’s a good cop, easily the best in the state of New Jersey, and a nice man. He’s never ratted Tim out to the Bats for stalking them, just sending him home with a sigh every time he’s caught him. 

Sometimes, Tim forgets that Babs and Commissioner Gordon are related. It’s a good thing that he’s never given the Commissioner his name, or he’d be sure to get an earful from Barbara about his nighttime activities. She was only twenty, but she could lecture like a forty-seven-year-old woman with three kids and minivan. 

He hums in response to Barbara, even though he knows that with was 100% Red Hood. “Yeah, all the random explosions must be a red-tape nightmare.” 

She nods and tugs her red ponytail. “Well, it’s what we get for living in THIS city. Hey, wanna learn how to remotely control some different smart home systems?” And that is that. 

Tim spends the most of the day working with Babs to mess with things in random homes, ranging from Bluetooth lightbulbs and Roombas and Google Home systems. It’s fun, stupid, distracting. Absolutely perfect. 

Once eight o’clock rolls around, Barbara asks if he wants to help clean up the library before he leaves, which doesn’t happen a lot but isn’t an uncommon occurrence. Sometimes, when Babs is tired, it’s miserable to have to roll around the library and pick up abandoned books, so she’ll ask Tim to help even though it isn’t really allowed. 

They’re almost finished closing up when Babs’ phone starts buzzing. She gives it a quizzical look and answers. 

Tim can’t hear the phone call, but judging from the way her face goes taut, it isn’t a good thing. She doesn’t say a thing until right at the very end, when she mutters “Got it, dad, I’ll stay at the library and shelve books or something. Be safe.” And hangs up. 

“What’s going on, Babs?” He asks, dread pooling in his gut. An Arkham break? A Blackgate break? Is it the Joker, the Mad Hatter, maybe Killer Croc? 

She drops her phone on the desk and pushes her glasses up. “Dad says it’s Poison Ivy, on the other side of Robinson Park. She’s going after a couple of executives of Keigan Atlantic, some oil company that’s apparently faked its tox reports and’ve been dumping waste illegally, killing a bunch of trees and stuff.” 

Babs looks at him now, a little concerned frown on her face. “No need to worry about it, Tim, Dad says the Bats are already there, she’s gonna go back to Arkham.” 

Tim jolts, jumps up. “Dr. Isley CAN’T go back to Arkham!” He blurts, before he can stop himself. Tim can feel the blood rushing to his face immediately. Great, now Babs is gonna get all suspicious. But Tim really doesn’t want Dr. Isley to get shipped back to the asylum just for trying to protect the forests from a corrupt oil business, especially not now, with the Joker in there. 

She’d told him all about the Joker, who’d just gotten crueler and crueler with Dr. Quinzel, and then absolutely blown up when he’d discovered that she’d started going out with Dr. Isley. There’s no telling what kind of cruel scheme he would pull if they were stuck in Arkham together, and besides, Poison Ivy’s his friend at this point, no matter how weird of a friendship it is. 

Babs is frowning at him. “Dr. Isley?” she asks. Tim gives her a reproachful look. 

“She DOES have a PhD, you know.” Babs shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it out and looks at him again. 

“Well yes, I know that. I just didn’t know you…called her Dr. Isley. Besides, when you start threatening people, you end up in Arkham or Blackgate, Tim, you know that. Poison Ivy’s dangerous.” But she ISN’T, Tim wants to say. She really isn’t all that dangerous. She’s killed way less people than the Red Hood, and in fact, she’s got one of the lowest body-counts of all of the Rogues. 

She just wants to help the Earth, really. She’s never been in it to hurt people for kicks like most of the rest of the villains that Batman’s fought. 

But he can’t tell Barbara that he KNOWS, her, that they sit and talk in Robinson Park sometimes and that she’s plucked him flowers from her bushes before, so long as there were plenty of other blooms to keep the plant healthy. That she’s shared fruit with him, apples just about to fall off the tree or blueberries about to burst from the bush. 

So instead he just shakes his head again, repeats “Dr. Isley cannot…she really shouldn’t go to Arkham.” Barbara’s frowning at him a whole lot now. 

“Tim, why don’t you wait here until she gets caught, yeah? Just to stay safe. The Bats are gonna take care of this, and she’ll probably be out of Arkham in no time. It practically has a revolving door.” Well, that IS very true. 

Babs keeps glancing over at her desktop for some reason. Maybe she’s worried about Dick? Nightwing’s in town so surely he and Batman are working together to take down Dr. Isley, and Tim knows that even though she and Dick Grayson broke up ages ago, they’re still friends. 

He suggests they turn on the news to see what’s happening, so Babs wheels behind the desk and flicks on the computer, pulling up the feeds from just about every reporter’s camera anywhere near Robinson Park. 

The fight is NOT going well for Batman and Nightwing. 

Poison Ivy’s there, of course, surrounded by her army of plants and looking quite angry, but she’s not the only one. Alone, Dr. Isley’s a formidable foe, even for both Batman and Nightwing, but together with Dr. Quinzel? They’re a dangerous team. 

Harley Quinn has Nightwing totally occupied, and Poison Ivy and Batman are having it out. Tim winces as he watches grainy footage of the death of one of Dr. Isley’s massive vines by batarang. Oh boy, that won’t go over well. 

Once she’s got Batman strung up, wrapped in a snare of plants, Dr. Isley plunges into the thicket she’s created in Robinson Park with Gotham’s hero, and Tim’s seen enough. 

“Tim, wait! Where’re you even going?” Babs shouts after him, but Tim keeps running, right for the door of the library. And it’s only nine o’clock at night!

He takes off at a sprint towards Robinson Park, where the fight is currently going down. Tim’s not entirely sure what he’s going to do, but the goal is to keep Doctors Isley and Quinzel out of Arkham, where Harley’s horrible ex-boyfriend surely waits to do awful things to them, and also to maybe help out Batman and Nightwing. 

He’s got an endgame, but absolutely no plan. 

He also isn’t exactly able to dedicate any energy to coming up with one, given that he’s flying down Gotham’s streets as fast as he can. Robinson Park is only a little over a mile away from Gotham Public Library, and Tim can be fast when he needs to be. 

It’s going to be a whole different ballgame trying to actually find Dr. Isley and Batman, though. Nobody but Dr. Isley and then sometimes her friends ever enter her forest in the Park. When she’s stuck in Arkham, all of the extra foliage recedes back into the Earth, only to immediately spring to life the second she’s out. 

Everyone knows that it’s full of carnivorous and poisonous plants, an absolute death trap if you aren’t with their queen. Even the Bats rarely try and brave it, instead drawing Poison Ivy out. 

When Tim finally reaches the Park, he’s panting and huffing, trying to catch his breath. Across the greenery, Tim can see the groups of reporters and the lights of the GCPD vehicles flashing in the dark. It hadn’t taken him way too long to get here, but already the sun has vanished from the sky and the city is black. 

He sets off at a light jog towards the back of the Park, Dr. Isley’s portion of it. On the distant other side, up towards the Reservoir, Tim can see flashes of light and hear light explosives going off. Well, at least he knows where Nightwing and Dr. Quinzel are. 

Tim pauses right at the edge of the makeshift jungle, trying to peer into its depths. He’s been inside twice before, but both times he was with Dr. Isley. Now, he’s all alone. 

“Uh, Dr. Isley?” He calls awkwardly into the plants. “Uh, I don’t really know if you can…hear me? Through the plants? But um, it’s Tim. I, uh…can I come in? Please?” 

He waits for a beat, and he’s about to just plunge in anyways when, miraculously, the fronds in front of him shift to the side, opening into a skinny path. Tim blinks, stunned, but recovers quickly, stepping into the foliage. 

It’s dark out, made even darker by the dense jungle, and it’s narrow as heck. Walking down the path with Dr. Isley those two times, he hadn’t noticed it, too caught up in conversation-listening to Dr. Isley talk about Harley or Selina Kyle, or talking himself, about photography or the new computer skills he’d learned-but now, Tim sees the way that the famous man-eating plants lean away, or the plants poisonous to the touch fold their leaves inward or hide their toxic berries. 

It’s beautiful, in a haunting sort of way, Tim thinks to himself, caught up in the dark greens and splashes of color. He can see why Dr. Isley would always be so enraptured with her plants. 

He can hear…something…up ahead, so Tim knows he’s nearing Batman and Dr. Isley, but he still hasn’t come up with any sort of plan. It’s kind of a little late for that, though, because a couple steps later and he’s standing in a clearing the two adversaries. 

Batman is strung up between two trees like he’s about to be crucified, arms out. The Batglare fixed to his face is something that usually, Tim would be absolutely itching to photograph. Dr. Isley is facing him, and she just looks generally angry, thorny underbrush growing around her feet. 

Suddenly, Batman’s gaze shifts from his opponent to face Tim, who is standing right at the edge of the path. Dr. Isley notices, of course, and whips around, red hair splaying behind her in an arc. 

“Timmy!” she exclaims, the angry look sliding right off her face. Despite the less-than-ideal situation, Tim grins back at her. 

“Hey, Dr. Isley! I, uh, I came to…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely towards the captured Batman. “I came to help? Um, both of you, I think.” Tim knows that his face has shaped into a sheepish expression, and boy does he really hope Batman doesn’t think he’s some kind of budding villain after this. 

Dr. Isley furrows her brow a little bit, looking back at Batman for a second. “What, are you finally going to let Cat train you? You know she always asks at spa day. I mean, Sapling, I’m always happy to see you, but I’m not sure if this is a great time.” She flicks a hand back towards a confused-looking Batman. He’s stopped trying to struggle his way out of the vines, just staring over at them now. 

Tim shakes his head. “Dr. Isley, you know I don’t really wanna steal anything. No, uh, I just saw on the news that he was trying to send you back to Arkham? But, uh, also that Dr. Quinzel was here and he and Nightwing were kinda…losing.” Tim winces and feels himself flushing red. He turns to Batman with an apologetic little smile. “Uh, sorry, um…Batman. Uh…no offense?” 

He just grunts in return, all deep and growly. Tim wonders if he recognizes him from any galas. Crap, that wouldn’t be very good at all. Probably not though, since he’s just some random little kid. Bruce Wayne has much more important things to deal with than the children of Gotham’s high society. 

Dr. Isley waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry dear, I won’t be heading to Arkham. SOMEBODY needs to feed you.” She frowns and gives him a critical one-over, crossing her arms. “Really, Tim, what DO you eat, besides my apples?” Tim sighs. This certainly is NOT the first time they’ve had this conversation. 

“I am a perfectly reasonable weight for a boy my height and age, Dr. Isley. But that’s not, like, the POINT right now. Uh,” Tim turns to face a Batman who is looking more and more bemused with every passing second. 

He gives him an awkward little wave. “Uh, hi, uh, Batman. Um…Dr. Isley wasn’t gonna like, hurt anyone, y’know? Really, she just wanted to save the environment that Keigan Atlantic’s waste disposal system is ruining. And, like,” Tim scratches his head now, staring off to the side of the Bat, so he doesn’t have to look him in the face and accidently confess something he shouldn’t. “Like, clearly nobody else was doing this, like, the legal way. And they’re an oil company, they probably could have made it a legal nightmare even if someone DID, so…”

Tim trails off, glancing back towards Dr. Isley, who is looking amused. This is really NOT how Tim wanted to connect with Batman. In fact, the goal was to never meet him, ever, lest his nighttime photography sessions be put to a stop. But here he is, meeting Batman in what is quite possibly the worst way ever-playing middleman between him and the person he’s FIGHTING. 

Dr. Isley offers Tim an encouraging smile, so he turns back to Batman. “So, if maybe you agreed not to send her back to Arkham where the Joker is, she could agree not to hurt the Keigan Atlantic executives, as long as they agreed to stop dumping waste where it can hurt the environment?”

Now, Tim looks to Dr. Isley for confirmation. She rolls her eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Timmy…” 

Batman cuts her off though. “Ivy, I can agree to that as long as you agree to leave the citizens of Gotham alone.” His face is pretty stoic-looking in Tim’s opinion, but he thinks he can maybe see some unidentifiable glint in the man’s eyes. 

Dr. Isley crosses her arms, mouth set into a thin line. “Sorry Bats, but if these people are going to hurt my plants, I’m not going to just roll over for you.” Crap, crap, crap, Tim most certainly did NOT want a big confrontation to happen now. Ok, ok, think, Tim. What had he learned from Jack and Janet’s business deals? Ok, uh, you do not back down until you have what you want, and you may compromise on everything but that. 

What was the goal again? 

Keep Dr. Isley out of Arkham, and also save Batman. Okay. He needed to make those things happen before he lost even MORE of his nerve. 

“Okay, um, guys. Uh, what if…” Boy, is Tim grasping at straws right now. There’s a dangerous light to Dr. Isley’s stance right now, all of the amusement gone, and Batman’s probably gonna start cutting vines sometime soon, which can only lead to an even bigger fight. “What if when Dr. Isley finds bigger environmental issues, she can hand them off to one of the Bats to deal with it faster than legally but also not…way too illegally?” 

Both Batman and Dr. Isley are looking at him like he’s got his boxers on his head, and that’s not ideal. Despite the flush to his face, Tim keeps going. “It’s a good plan, right? Because then you guys don’t have to fight and nobody has to get hurt, but also we can keep the Earth safe? Plus, Dr. Isley can stay in the Park, and lots of people like it when she’s in the Park because of all the fruit that grows.”

If Batman didn’t have the face of a solid wall of rock, Tim would think he looked contemplative. 

His two audience members just stand there (or hang there, in Batman’s case) and stare at him for several moments. A few long seconds in, Tim’s palms start sweating profusely. A couple more moments and the shaking will start, Tim knows, but it doesn’t, because Dr. Isley suddenly cracks a massive grin and wheels around to face Batman.

“Are you up for that, Bats? Because I’m willing to give it a shot, if it means you’ll stop chopping up my vines.” 

Batman’s about to respond, when suddenly Dr. Isley’s head whips around a split second before two figures come tumbling into the clearing, weapons drawn. 

Her vines shoot out of the ground, ready to strike. 

“Batman!” One of then calls, escrima sticks poised to strike. Tim feels a little sick. 

But Batman shakes his head. “Nightwing, Red Hood, stand down. We’re making a deal, here.” 

All of a sudden, Tim’s got two new pairs of eyes boring into him one in confusion and one in disbelief. 

“Timmy?” The Red Hood calls, shoving his guns back into his belt a little incredulously. “What the hell are you doing here? And also,” he spins around, voice shifting from disbelieving to something a whole lot darker in a split second. This is the Red Hood that Tim knows from watching (stalking) his patrols, this darker, angrier vigilante that Tim isn’t so sure he drew the right conclusions on, anymore, not since the past two nights. “Since when do we make deals with the goddamn ROGUES?”

He waves a massive, gloved hand towards Dr. Isley and Tim frowns. She was no supervillain, really, and Jason Todd had barely even encountered her since his Robin days. 

“You KNOW him?” Nightwing says at the same time that Bruce spits, “It is a mutually beneficial arrangement.” There’s a lot of people here now, and Tim is fully, 100% aware that he is wearing the clothes he stole from the Red Hood while standing in front of him, his brother, and his estranged father. 

The only way this could get any worse is if the Joker or somebody decided to show up. He really hated the Joker. Or his parents, maybe, but that isn’t nearly as plausible. 

He can feel the sweat pooling in his palms, and boy, he does NOT need to have his hands start shaking now. That would be capital B Bad. And capital E Embarrassing. 

Tim casts a glance over at Dr. Isley, who does not look angry or ready to fight but also has her arms crossed defensively, and then glances back at Batman, who’s face is as blankly intimidating as ever. 

Against his better judgement (and also his entire nervous system), Tim clears his throat quietly. “So, um, do you guys…have a deal?” All four pairs of eyes are on him now and he’s pretty sure if he had Dr. Isley’s abilities he would have gotten a massive Venus Flytrap to swallow him whole at this point. 

Nightwing’s expression is totally open, staring at him with utmost confusion. The Red Hood looks kinda like he wants to strangle every single person in the clearing, but it’s hard to tell with the helmet on. If Batman could actually transmit emotions, Tim thinks he would probably look a little incredulous. Dr. Isley is smiling at him softly. 

She is the first to turn away, back towards the Bats. “If you all leave me alone in here and keep my plants safe when I ask you to, I won’t go out kidnapping or mind-controlling any Gotham citizens.” 

They all tear their respective gazes away from Tim and seem to have an entire conversation just through looking at each other. Tim’s more than a little bit jealous, because HE wishes he could have silent conversations like that. And also, wow, as soon as the shock wears off, Tim’s pretty sure he’s gonna be sent right into cardiac arrest, because he was HERE, with three of the BATS, being their freaking NEGOTIATOR. 

After a wordless deliberation, the three vigilantes nod firmly. “Batman and me are cool with that.” Nightwing declares resolutely, his casual words and stance somehow seeming even firmer than an epoxy resin vacuum seal. 

The Red Hood sighs and crosses his arms. “I can manage that too.” Tim refuses to look at any of them after that, all of the bravery he felt evaporating as soon as the goal is accomplished. He can hear Dr. Isley’s vines uncurl around Batman and the man drop down to the grass underfoot, but if Tim lifts his head to look he could very well just pass out, with how lightheaded he feels now, so he keeps his gaze resolutely downcast. 

A shadow moves in front of him and Tim starts, but it’s just Dr. Isley. That’s okay, she won’t expect him to look up, she gets it, enough. It isn’t like they meet for Sunday brunch every week, but they’re friends, in a totally unexpected way. 

“Thanks for that, Sapling, really, you’re brilliant. Now I’ve gotta go find Harley before she gets wrapped up into trouble.” Now, Tim is able to drag his eyes up to look at Dr. Isley, who has a warm smile on her face now. 

“Will you tell Dr. Quinzel I say hi?” He all but whispers, but she hears him. 

“Of course, Tim. And, really, please remember to eat something.” She flicks her wrist and another skinny trail opens, this time leading out of her jungle. “Come visit sometime, okay?”

He nods, promises, offers her the biggest smile he can muster right now, and shuffles onto the trail, the fronds closing behind him. At least this means he probably won’t have to face the Bats, which is definitively a good thing. They probably weren’t going to be very thrilled with him.

Oh boy, oh boy, they were probably going to absolutely HATE him. 

That was absolutely MORTIFYING, having to speak in front of everyone like that, as if he had any idea how to fight crime in the most crime-ridden city on the planet. Thank goodness for Dr. Isley, giving him his own private path out of the forest to have his meltdown. 

Tim’s been stumbling along for about a minute, the cotton stuffing filling his brain, when a crash resounds behind him, and a bulky figure bursts out of the thick underbrush and onto the path. He winces and stops walking. Well, it isn’t like he can just OUTRUN the Red Hood. 

The vigilante in question brushes off his motorcycle jacket and pops the helmet, tucking it under one arm. 

“Heya, Timbo. So, ah, when were you gonna mention that you’re all buddy-buddy with Poison Ivy and co.? Dinner number three? Maybe four?” He flinches, shuffling his feet. Crap. They WERE all mad at him. 

In fact, now the Red Hood was going to tell him to stay out of the way for the rest of his life, and he was going to stop investigating the drugs, because how could he possibly take Tim seriously now that they all knew he and Dr. Isley were friends? 

Tim glances in between the Red Hood’s boots and the surrounding greenery, his chest feeling like it’s been sunk with the Titanic. “I…I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to…to ruin anything? Um, I…I’m really sorry I took your clothes and your couch and interrupted the fight but please, please, PLEASE, you can’t stop investigating the Angel Juice! Please, please, okay, I’ll…I’ll…”

I’ll get out of Gotham and leave you all be, I’ll disappear forever and never interfere with a fight again, I’ll give you however much money you want in return for the food and the clothes and the shelter. 

Jason holds up the hand not keeping the helmet in place, forehead scrunching up confusedly. 

“Whoa, whoa Timbers. Hey, I offered the couch, and the clothes. I didn’t…” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and sighs. “Look, I’m not mad, got it? And I’m not stopping the drug investigation, Kiddo. I just…where are you planning on sleeping tonight?”

Tim blinks. That…that was NOT what he expected. Oooookay. That was very different from what he expected, which wasn’t a hand to the face or anything, but also wasn’t very pleasant. “I…” 

His voice is much smaller than it was in the clearing, when he had been trying to protect both his friend and the Bats. “I don’t…”

The Red Hood sighs again and shakes his head. “Okay, Kid, here’s the deal. There’s no way in hell that you’re sleeping behind that dumpster again, so unless you’re staying with your Aunty Ivy, then I’m taking you back to my safehouse.” Shame bubbles up in Tim’s gut at the thought of last night and being found behind the dumpster, but he quickly smashes it down. 

“I…you mean…” The corner of Jason’s lip tilts up. 

“Couch is yours then, Timmy. Now, let’s split before Nightwing catches up, yeah? Trust me, you DON’T wanna be on the wrong end of one of his interrogations.”

Tim gulps and nods, unable to open his mouth and force any more words out. 

The warm feeling that he can feel bubbling up behind his ribcage as he shuffles along the path out of the jungle next to the Red Hood is pleasant, happy, and not entirely foreign anymore. And it isn’t perfect, but it’s a start. 

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	9. Chapter 9 (Jason/Bruce)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! I started a monster hunter au, guys, I'm having so much fun with it! Also, drumroll please, here is JASON'S POV! Plus the bonus POV of none other than Bruce freakin' Wayne, because I know it can get boring reading about the same events over and over again. Please enjoy it! let me know what you think, too! I love reading you guys's comments more than anything else in the world.

JASON

When he’s rolled out of bed the next morning, Jason had been full prepared to make pancakes and then Timmy-wrangle until he knew every single detail of his life. 

However, that plan fell through when Jason shuffled out of his room to find an empty couch, a neatly folded blanket, and a stupidly polite note scribbled on a napkin. God damn it. Timmy-fucking-Drake was gonna kill him. 

Who knew where the hell the kid was now? 

A quick check revealed that his security systems had been disarmed and then rearmed around nine that morning, and oh joy, it was 10:30 now. Brilliant. He really COULD be anywhere. 

Jason sighed and started up the coffee maker, pulling out his flour and eggs. Well, he could still have pancakes, at least. But no way in HELL was Timbo gonna be spending another night behind his little fucking dumpster, that was some bullshit that he was not going to stand for. 

Jason spent almost the entire day running over the names and locations in the evidence folders, working the Angel Juice case. It was tedious, but after spending most of the day on it, he had a plan for the next week. 

He’d worked locations into his patrol routes and scheduled takedowns of various exchanges of the opioids, working out a plan to systematically wipe the rest of the supply out before it could do much damage. Jack and Janet Drake were stuck in Gotham for the time being, managing their building crisis, so Jason could eliminate a lot of the remaining stores of the Angel Juice to keep the streets safe before he made another move on the heads of the operation. 

At around six, though, Jason stood and packed everything up. It was time for his regularly scheduled safehouse switch. 

It never took long for him to move safehouses, given that he kept all of them pretty stocked up and ready just in case he needed to crash somewhere thanks to an emergency. However, he had some perishable food, a couple of books he wanted to read that the new house wouldn’t have, and of course, all of his evidence. 

It took only two trips on his motorcycle, one to carry his food and books and a couple odds and ends, and then another to carry all of his Red Hood gear and of course, files. Files upon files of active casework. Thank goodness for Tim’s thumb drive too, because he was pretty sure there were a couple of photos or spreadsheets that accidentally got left behind. 

This safehouse was a little bigger than the last one. For one, the kitchen wasn’t just a wall, it was an actual room, with counterspace and an actual oven instead of just a microwave and stovetop. The living room had a pull-out couch AND an armchair, and the bedroom was big enough to fit his vigilante workspace. 

The absolute best part, though, was the small little closet next to the bathroom that had a washer and dryer. Hallelujah. 

The first thing Jason did after unloading and storing his food and stacking his books on the kitchen counter was toss Tim’s dirty set of clothes into the wash along with the small bag of dirty laundry he had brought with him. 

The second thing he did was start dinner.

The kid was skinny as fuck and ridiculously small, and after he found him tonight (which he WOULD), Jason was determined to stuff him with as much food as humanly possible. 

Jason whipped up a nice slow-cooking chili and set the stove on low, letting it simmer lightly. Something warm, easy to eat, and really fucking good. Plus, he could abandon it to go search for Tim. 

Or, that was the plan until Babs hacked his helmet barely thirty seconds after he put it on. 

“Red, Hood, this is Oracle. I know you can hear me, so don’t bother pretending you can’t.”

He sighed. Fantastic. He had THOUGHT they’d had some sort of unspoken arrangement but guess not. “Jesus Christ, O, I haven’t even left the safehouse yet. Also, what the fuck?”

Babs grunted “language” at him through the tinny speakers and he rolled his eyes. 

“Before you ask, no. I’ve got plans tonight.” Yeah, plans. Hunting down that stupid little genius child and then feeding him until he weighed more than a large housecat. 

“Not anymore. Look, Hood, we all know that you don’t like working with us, but B and N got caught up in some trouble with Harley and Ivy, and-”Babs stopped talking abruptly, a little choked-sounding. “And I’m stuck at the library in my civilian identity, and there’s a…a friend of mine who I think is about to go and do something stupid.”

Jason grunted, more than a little pissed off. Jesus FUCKING Christ, now the Bats were trying to WORK with him? But, a small, non-pit part of him whispered, Barbara wasn’t really a Bat, she was just Barbara, who’d the Joker hurt too. Barbara, who he missed, who was worried about a friend. The pit side of him won out, though. 

“Nightwing and Bitchman can deal with Ivy and Harley on their own, Christ. They never even kill anyone anymore.” 

Babs sounded a little frustrated when she responded, “They didn’t expect Harley to be helping out, they got the drop on the boys. Ivy’s got Batman in her little Robinson Park jungle. She doesn’t know it, but he isn’t carrying any more antidote, and N’s wrapped up fighting Harley. I…” 

There was shuffling on the other end of the line, and Barbara sighed. “Hood, please. I can’t help them from here, and there’s this friend of mine, a civilian, who just…took off, towards the fight. I’m…I’m worried about them. All three. I’ll owe you, really.”

He narrowed his eyes and tried to think it over. Well, it was early as fuck, just barely even dark out, so after he saved the two douchebats, there would be plenty of time to go and find Tim behind whatever dumpster of the night he’d chosen. Plus, a favor from Babs was not to be taken lightly. 

“If you’ll steal me a new bike, AND B’s updated toxin information, AND three new grapples, then I’ll do it.” There. 

“The toxin info and the grapple guns, that’s it.” Jason snorted, perched on the windowsill. Yeah, no, Brucie could afford him a bike, thanks. 

“All three and I promise I won’t blow anybody’s brains out.” Babs sighed through the line, defeated. 

“Deal. They’re in Robinson Park. Nightwing’s got Harley covered, but Batman’s inside of Ivy’s little jungle.” He grunted in affirmation and swung out into the night, landing in the alley where his bike was hidden. 

“ETA six minutes, O. Hood, out.” He severed the comm line, full well knowing she could open it right back up if she really wanted to. Still, it was the spite that counted. 

Alright, he had about an hour and a half before the chili needed to come off the stove, so there wasn’t any time to goof around. Jason pushed his bike as fast as he could while still not causing any terrible auto accidents, parking it in some random, grungy little alley only a few blocks from the telltale Harley Quinn firework-type explosions that were lighting up the sky. 

Well, at least he could help Dickwad first, maybe Brucie would escape by the time they’d subdued Harley. 

Jason shoots his (soon to be replaced with a newer model) grapple gun towards the nearest building and soars up to the rooftop, scanning for a familiar black and blue suit. It doesn’t take long to locate Nightwing and Harley Quinn, given that Harley’s blowing off her version of bottle rockets two blocks over with much glee. 

Jason drops down in the alley behind Harley and aims a kick to her legs. She jumps out of the way with a howl of anger. Dick says something stupid and gratituous, which Jason ignores, and it doesn’t take longer than a couple of minutes to get her to pop a smoke bomb and get the fuck outta dodge. She knows she can’t take the both of them. 

“Hey, Hood! Thanks for-”

“Shut the fuck up and let’s get B before I shoot somebody.”

“I…yeah okay. The Park.” Jason nods, glad that Dickface isn’t trying to have a sentimental conversation right now. Jason wants to finish this, to free B and bag Ivy so Babs will have to steal him a new bike from the cave, and then go find Tim, who writes stupidly polite notes and needs to eat more and…who IS NOT the focus right now. 

It doesn’t take long to reach Ivy’s impressive forest in the back of Robinson Park. Dick glances at Batman’s tracker. “He’s still in there, right in the middle of it.”

Jason groans. He HATES man-eating plants, even if Ivy herself is one of the most tolerable Rogues. She isn’t a goddamn psychopath and kills less people than him. It’s just, the poison-kiss thing is not fun, and neither is the mind control. 

God, does he hate the fucking mind control. 

“Maybe she’ll be too distracted to have the plants attack us!” Dick says brightly as they stand at the edge of the jungle. 

Jason rolls his eyes, even though Nightwing can’t see it under his hood. “Can we just get this over with?”

And, surprisingly, they do. None of the plants lash out at them, and there isn’t a single man-eating Venus Flytrap along the entire path. It’s annoying to have to carefully move all of the foliage outta the way to move, but nothing is actively trying to kill them. 

Batman’s tracker blinks on Nightwing’s wrist, getting closer and closer, and still, the most dangerous thing they encounter are some annoying thorn bushes. It’s a little bit suspicious. 

But now, they can hear an unintelligible female voice that can only be Poison Ivy, so Dick and Jason rush forward, moving faster, no longer carefully avoiding the plants, and they burst out into a clearing, where Batman is strung up with Ivy’s vines and the woman in question is glaring at them, vines bursting forth from the Earth. 

Her vines shoot out of the ground, ready to strike. 

“Batman!” Nightwing calls, escrima sticks at the ready. Jason’s got two pistols out, both aimed at Ivy’s head. Huh. Didn’t even realize he’d taken them out. 

B shakes his head though, which is weird, because now is when he usually pulls the stoic version of his Smug Batman Face, the one he makes every time someone (usually Cass) shows up to help him out. “Nightwing, Red Hood, stand down. We’re making a deal, here.” 

We’re? 

And Jason must be a shit vigilante because this is the first time he notices the other person in the clearing, a scrawny kid wearing his own freaking clothes, practically cowering in the shadows, eyes wide.

Timmy-fucking-Drake. 

“Timmy?” What the hell is he doing here, with fucking Poison Ivy, and why the fuck hasn’t she tied him up or something? And how the fuck did he make it into her forest? “What the hell are you doing here?” He demands incredulously, and then feels a little bad for cursing at the kid. “And also,” 

Now, Jason spins to face Bruce, and oh, joy, he’s put his guns away at some point, but wouldn’t he just LOVE to aim one right at that creepy fucking cowl. “Since when do we make deals with the goddamn ROGUES?”

Jason gestures towards Ivy, who’s vines still wrap defensively around her. Because really, what the fuck? Since when was Batman making fucking plea deals with criminals? Even if it WAS Poison Ivy, who was one of the most reasonable, and even if she WAS all buddy-buddy with Selina, who Bruce was pegging, why the fuck couldn’t they just send her off to Arkham? With the three of them, they certainly had enough manpower.

“You KNOW him?” Dick asks from next to him, pointing towards Tim, at the same exact time that Bruce says, “It is a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Jason rolls his eyes, again, even though, yes, he knows that nobody can tell. Of COURSE Dick’s more worried about him corrupting the children of Gotham or whatever than he is about Bruce suddenly deciding to make deals with villains. 

Nobody says anything for several beats, just Dick glancing (really fucking obviously) between Tim and Jason, and Bruce hanging all indifferently from Ivy’s vines that he totally could have cut his way out of by now, and of course, fucking Tim, in the corner, shifting between his two feet, trying to be discreet about wiping his palms on his pants. 

God, he had been more worried than he’d realized about the kid, because the relief that’s flooding him now that the shock has worn off is almost enough to make his knees buckle. 

But hey, now he most definitely doesn’t regret taking Babs up on her offer. Killing two birds with one stone and all that.

Jason’s thinking that the silence is about to get awkward when, outta the blue, Tim clears his throat, eyes focused downwards. “So, um, do you guys…have a deal?” Jason winces internally when everyone instantly focuses on the kid. Jason can see his fingers twitch a little bit, about to start shaking. 

Weirdly enough, though, Poison-goddamn-Ivy offers this weird-ass sweet, soft smile to Tim, a smile that he’s literally never seen cross her face before, and then she turns to face all of them. Tim’s fingers don’t twitch anymore, though, so he tables the concern about her and Timmy for the moment. 

It kinda looks like they fucking know each other, which is really weird. 

Ivy speaks firmly but without hostility, stating “If you all leave me alone in here and keep my plants safe when I ask you to, I won’t go out kidnapping or mind-controlling any Gotham citizens.” 

She sounds genuine. Jason’s no Cass, who can literally read minds, but judging people had always been one of his strengths, and he’s 95% sure that she means what she says. 

This is shaping up to be one of the weirdest fights he’s ever been in, and one of the first to actually end in a truce. 

Jason locks eyes with Batman and Nightwing, communicating with expression and body language alone. Batman looks pretty firm on the stance that he’s down to see if this works out, and being Brucie’s perfect little lackey, Nightwing agrees with him. Goddamn bootlicker. 

But also, Jason’s down with this. Ivy never causes any ruckus in Burnley anyways, and then it’s almost always some lover’s spat between Harley and Joker up in Amusement Mile that she shows up at to help her (girl?)friend. 

Plus, Jason is pretty sure that Tim’s the negotiator on this deal, which is insane, but honestly? THIS is the kid who’s been stalking all of them unnoticed since he was younger than Damian. The kid who’d run from his drug-lord asshole parents to deliver so much evidence against them that they barely even needed a trial. So kinda far-fetched and nuts, yeah. But impossible? Nope. 

And clearly, Tim’s smart as fuck, so if he’s got some sort of deal all worked out with Batman and Ivy, then it’s probably a good one. 

All three of them nod at each other, and Nighwing declares, “Batman and me are cool with that.” 

Jason crosses his arms and glances once more between Ivy and Tim, who is looking about ready to crumble into dust and float away. “I can manage that too.” 

Ivy’s vines uncurl from Batman’s arms and legs, and he drops to the grass a few feet below. Nightwing rushes over right away to play Golden Boy, but no way in hell is Jason gonna go and willingly talk to fucking Bruce, not even if Babs offered him a second bike, so he sulks at the edge of the clearing, and watches Tim and Ivy. 

Poison Ivy’s standing in front of Tim, backs to the Bats like she doesn’t even care that they’re here. Timbo, of course, is trying to make himself as small as possible, but he’s looking up at her, not even a little bit scared. Yup, he thinks, somehow they fucking know each other.

“Thanks for that, Sapling, really, you’re brilliant.” Ivy’s saying to Tim, and hold the fucking horses, she calls him Sapling now? “Now I’ve gotta go find Harley before she gets wrapped up into trouble.” Tim’s smiling at her, started smiling at her the second she called him Sapling, and Jason feels a little pang. 

Did his parents ever call him anything but fucking Timothy? 

“Will you tell Dr. Quinzel I say hi?” Jason can’t hear him, but he was a fucking Bat, he can read lips, and oh, he knows Harley-goddamn-Quinn too? Harley Quinn? Gotham’s Crime Queen? He calls her fucking doctor? Of course. Tim could probably make friends with the goddamn Al Ghuls if he wanted to. 

“Of course, Tim. And, really, please remember to eat something.” Ok, so maybe Ivy isn’t all that bad. He could use some other members of team Make Timmy Eat Food. She opens a thin trail through the forest behind him. “Come visit sometime, okay?”

“Promise I will.” Tim gives her this small little grin, and Ivy’s sending him a sappy (no pun intended) smile right back, like he’s a cute puppy or something. It’s kind of ridiculous, honestly. 

And joy oh joy, Nightwing’s moving towards him, opening his mouth, probably to talk his fucking ear off, so Jason plunges into the undergrowth and makes a beeline to intercept Tim’s path. 

Dick calls after him, of course, but then Batman says HIS name, which means he wants his stupid little mission report, which means Jason has a several-minute head start to find Tim and kidnap him. 

Well. 

Only a little. 

Jason makes his way as quickly as possible through the plants, and then, aha, he can see the path up ahead, the plants retaking it at a leisurely pace. He pushes his way through a couple of trees and bursts onto the path, just a few feet behind Timbo, who flinches and freezes. 

Jason brushes a few specks off his jacket and pulls the helmet off, since Tim always seemed a bit more comfortable when faced with, well, a face. 

“Heya, Timbo. So, ah, when were you gonna mention that you’re all buddy-buddy with Poison Ivy and co.? Dinner number three? Maybe four?” Shit, yeah, okay, that definitely did not come out very well. Alfred’s old lessons in tact clearly had not carried over as well as his cooking, because Tim flinches like he thinks he’s mad, and starts rambling. 

“I…I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to…to ruin anything? Um, I…I’m really sorry I took your clothes and your couch and interrupted the fight but please, please, PLEASE, you can’t stop investigating the Angel Juice! Please, please, okay, I’ll…I’ll…”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Shit on a stick. 

He thinks that Jason’s going to give up the drug case just because he’d managed to work out an entire cease-fire between one of Gotham’s most famous villains, the Bats, AND the Red Hood? As if that was somehow an inconvenience? He does NOT want to know what train of thought led Timmy to draw that conclusion lest he put his fist through one of Ivy’s trees and get himself poisoned.

Jason holds up the hand not keeping the helmet in place, wrinkling his forehead. 

“Whoa, whoa Timbers. Hey, I offered the couch, and the clothes. I didn’t…” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and sighs. “Look, I’m not mad, got it? And I’m not stopping the drug investigation, Kiddo. I just…” How does he even phrase this, without sounding like a freak in a van with candy? 

How does he tell Tim that he doesn’t want him alone at night on the streets, starving and dirty, sleeping behind dumpsters? How does he tell him he’s accidentally become invested in him, and how much he’s eating, and whether he’s scared or sad or lonely, and whether or not his hands are shaking?

But, again, he’s always been shit at tact, so he just asks, “Where are you planning on sleeping tonight?”

Tim blinks, looking a little caught off guard. “I…” 

Tim’s voice is so fucking small and scared sounding, and he looks so young and sad and lonely, standing there, drowning in Jason’s clothes. Tim, who lived alone in a house with no other people for months at a time. Tim, who’s parents were going to drug him like a lab rat. Tim, who flinches when people move too quickly or talk to loudly, but who just stood down the Bats and Poison Ivy to create a truce. “I don’t…”

Jason sighs, shakes his head a little. That means that he was planning on crashing behind his nasty ass dumpster again. “Okay, Kid, here’s the deal. There’s no way in hell that you’re sleeping behind that dumpster again, so unless you’re staying with your Aunty Ivy, then I’m taking you back to my safehouse.” 

Timmy’s eyes widen, and he’s like an open book, face slowly lighting up with the most innocently hopeful expression he’s ever seen in his entire life. It makes Jason’s heart clench. 

“I…you mean…” Jason tilts the corner of his lip up into a little smile, because Tim’s finally getting it. 

“Couch is yours then, Timmy. Now, let’s split before Nightwing catches up, yeah? Trust me, you DON’T wanna be on the wrong end of one of his interrogations.” Yeah, Jason wasn’t too keen on having a conversation with Dickhead about how he’s making Poison Ivy’s apparent BFF crash on his safehouse couch. Also, Bruce doesn’t have the best track record with collecting black-haired blue-eyed orphans, and Tim isn’t technically an orphan, but his parents suck ass. 

Timmy just nods, still staring at him with his massively wide eyes, like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. He doesn’t seem to be able to say anything else, but that’s okay. 

Jason walks side-by-side with Tim down the path and out into Robinson Park, staying close to him without touching, because he doesn’t wanna freak the kid out when he already looks halfway to a panic attack. 

It’s probably been a long day for him, and Jason doesn’t know Tim all that well yet (despite the crying sesh from the night before), but he can tell that people aren’t exactly his strong suit. So Jason walks them both out of the Park, carefully avoiding the crowds of reporters, and back towards his bike. 

Tim still wasn’t saying anything by the time they got to the alley and Jason was passing over his spare helmet from the saddlebag, but his hands weren’t shaking, not even a little. And it wasn’t perfect, but it sure was a pretty good start. 

BRUCE

There was a child here. 

There was a child here, in Poison Ivy’s jungle, negotiating. 

There was a child here, in Poison Ivy’s jungle, negotiating between him, the Batman, and her, Poison Ivy. What’s more, he didn’t even call her Poison Ivy, he called her Dr. Isley. And he knew her. 

Actually, he didn’t just KNOW her, they were friends. Accomplices, no, not when the child, Tim, was here trying to forge a truce, but friends for certain. She called him Sapling for God’s sake. 

Not only that, Bruce was at least 97% sure that this was the same child from a couple nights ago, the one who ambushed him on patrol, for…for something he didn’t exactly remember, or pay much mind to at all. 

It had seemed like a prank, or something irrelevant, like a stolen bicycle or something else of the sort. Now, though, he wasn’t quite so sure. 

Additionally, when Nightwing and, surprisingly, the Red Hood burst into the clearing ready for a fight, Ivy hadn’t been the only person who knew Tim anymore. Unfathomably, Jason did too. In fact, Jason called him Timmy. Dick’s eyes flashed with recognition as well, though he did not have an outburst. 

It seemed that Bruce was the only person here who did not know anything about the small child who was acting as a middle ground between a group of vigilantes and one of their longest adversaries, and he did not like that one bit. 

He also didn’t like the way that Jason, his son no matter what had or what would happen, was eyeing him like he would spring free from Ivy’s vines and attack at any second. It made his chest ache in an uncomfortably familiar way, an ache that hadn’t left since he’d found his boy dead in a warehouse in Ethiopia. 

And that was why he’d let him go. 

After the child had gotten them to agree to a cease-fire that Bruce would admit was something he’d barely even given thought to in the past but probably should have given how nonviolently the situation was dissolved, Ivy created the boy a path out of her forest and Jason plunged after him, this small little kid who he somehow knew. 

Dick, of course, made an attempt to follow him, only doing what Bruce wanted more than anything to do, but engaging with the Red Hood would add a vicious end to what had been the most peaceful encounter with a Rogue he had had in forever, and that wouldn’t be ideal. Besides, Bruce could tell that Dick ALSO knew the identity of the boy beyond just a first name, and he had his cowl footage, so Babs would be able to run a scan and fill in any missing pieces. 

Jason could be confronted about his relation to Tim later, by someone who…wasn’t him. Admitting that his own son couldn’t barely stand to be in the same room as him felt like a knife to the gut, but the Batman part of Bruce knew that in order to maximize their information, it would have to be Dick or Babs. 

But, instead of letting Nightwing dive after the Red Hood and Tim, Bruce called him back for a mission report. 

Reluctantly, Dick turned back towards him and Ivy, who was standing defensively still. 

“Okay, Bats, just because Timmy’s set us a truce doesn’t mean we’re friends now. Out of my forest.” It seemed that her hospitality had run out. Bruce gave her a short nod. 

Nightwing spoke up before he could, saying “Thanks, Ivy! If you need to get with us about a plant thing, uh, what’s the plan there?” Ah. It was good thinking on Dick’s part to preset a signal and avoid any unnecessary confusion. 

Ivy twirled her red hair around a finger, humming thoughtfully. Her vines swayed around her. After a few seconds she sighed, and put her hand on her hips. “I’ll just tap into the green and get one of my plants to get your attention. You can meet me here in the Park, but don’t enter my forest.” 

“Understood.” He growled out in his Batman voice, sweeping his cape as he turned away, towards the edge of the clearing. A dismissal. He could hear Nightwing’s light footsteps behind him. Ivy huffed, but the fronds in front of them parted in a clear path back out into the city. 

“Nightwing,” Bruce ground out, not looking at his partner beside him, “Who was the child?” Dick bounced out in front of him, brow wrinkled. 

“You really didn’t recognize him? Timmy Drake? He’s literally our neighbor.” Well…that was…embarrassing. Ra’s could never find out about this incident, a slip in his memory. Because now that Nightwing had said that, it was easy to place him. Jack and Janet’s boy, always quiet and polite at the galas he’d attended, a blank face blending into the shadows by the walls. Near invisible, quite unmemorable. 

Bruce just grunted at Dick, hoping he didn’t start. His hope was in vain, of course, because his son beamed at him. “Oh all bow to the World’s Greatest Detective, the brilliant Batman!” He crowed teasingly, still bouncing around him as Bruce strolled briskly down Ivy’s path. 

Bruce grunted again, tamping down the small smile that his mouth wanted to make. He was Batman right now, not Bruce Wayne, and this was just so…childish. “Gotham’s most ingenious vigilante, who couldn’t even recognize his own neighbor!”

“Nightwing, enough.” Dick’s smile wavered and Bruce felt a small stab of guilt. “We all know that Gotham’s most brilliant vigilante is Agent A.” His son’s smile was back, even brighter this time, and he felt a little twinge, one that wished that Jason was here as well, smiling at him like he had before he’d died, like he’d hung the stars and the moon, making stupid jokes and calling him Old Man. 

He brushed it aside. The sentimentality could be saved for once patrol was over. 

“Call Agent A, have him get O to the CT so she can run comms. And I have questions for her, about Timothy Drake.”

Bruce didn’t miss Nightwing’s slight wince at that, and he wanted answers. He wanted to know who Timothy Drake was, why he was out at night in Gotham, how he knew Poison Ivy, why he had shown up and negotiated this truce, whether or not he was working for anybody. 

“Nightwing,” he started, but Dick looked back at him, and interrupted, something he had done constantly in his Robin days. God, Bruce missed working with his kids every night. Damian was too young for the cape, too violent, and it would not serve as an outlet yet, but more a catalyst. And Bruce refused to put any more of his children in the kind of danger that had lost him his son. 

“B, look, can we talk about it later? It’s kinda complicated, and O just told me about it literally yesterday, and we still have patrol tonight. And no, I do NOT know how he knows Hood.” It was such a Dick Grayson response to what would have been a Batman interrogation, and Batman can say no to Nightwing, but not to Dick, not to his kid instead of his partner. 

So he sighs, nods once and points his grapple towards a building as soon as they’ve emerged from Ivy’s jungle. Nightwing follows, and they spend the next hours rushing through Gotham, sometimes together and sometimes not, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s so proud of Dick for branching out into Bludhaven, for becoming his own person, a crime-fighter equal to Bruce instead of below him, but it’s nice, to have his son home for the next few days. It’s nice.

Later that night, once patrol is over and the reports have been uploaded to the Batcomputer, Bruce sits in the computer chair and calls for Dick, connects a line over to Barbara, who’s tired face pops up on a window on the screen. 

“Now,” he starts, looking between the two of them, “I think that we have some things to discuss.”

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	10. Chapter 10 (Dick)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I finally got around to responding to y'all's comments and I actually, like, teared up at the end. You guys are so sweet and amazing and supportive of this fic, and I just...wow, you guys are amazing. And this chapter is more of a recap chapter that goes over a lot of the events from this first section of the story, but you guys are so amazing and I wanted to give you something new and exciting on Sunday or Monday, so I am posting this early so that I can give you that instead of making you wait an extra week. 
> 
> Just...guys, like, I read every single comment so many times and I appreciate all of you so much. So this is a little gift to you. It pretty much wraps up the first section of the story and goes over some important events in Dick's perspective, starting when Babs goes to the manor the first time to find out who Tim is, so I hope you enjoy and I'll be back either Sunday or Monday :)

Dick loved it when Babs came to visit at the manor instead of staying holed up in her Clock Tower to do Oracle stuff. He loved it. 

Babs was his oldest and best friend/kind-of-sister/ex and living in Bludhaven where he couldn’t see her all the time really sucked. Sure, being away from Batman and able to kinda do his own thing was fantastic, and yeah, being a cop was going to be pretty amazing the next year, but he missed Babs, Alfie, Dami, and even Bruce on the daily. 

So when she wheeled into the living room while he was attempting to show Damian the world’s best detective show (Scooby Doo), he was overjoyed. 

Bruce had mentioned her coming to run updates on the Batcomputer at some point that night but he hadn’t really been paying attention and also he kinda thought it would be just a quick Bat visit, but clearly, it wasn’t, because Barbara was here, looking at him with an amused smile. 

“Babs!” Dick launched himself towards Barbara with glee. “You’re here early! Look,” Dick gestured to Damian, who was wearing his default petulant scowl. “I’m showing Dami Scooby Doo!” 

He and Babs had used to watch the show together what seemed like eons ago, back when his English still wasn’t amazing, back before she had gotten wrapped up in the crusade for justice as well. 

Damian made an adorably annoyed tt sound and wrinkled his nose up in another little scowl. “I am NOT actually WATCHING this show, Grayson, and I do not see how you can stand to consider this garbage ‘enjoyable media.’”

Uh huh, sure, Dick thought as he ruffled Dami’s hair. They both knew that if he really HAD found the show stupid and boring, he would have left a while ago to go try and convince Bruce to give him his ‘rightful mantle’ or whatever he called it. 

“It’s a classic, Little D. Anyways,” he turned back towards Babs, who was suppressing a grin for Damian’s sake (he HATED when people thought he was cute). “What’re you doing here early?” Barbara pushed her glasses up and sighed, and oh, this wasn’t a friendly home visit of the fun type. There was an issue. 

“I actually needed to talk to you. I have a facial recognition scan to run on the Batcomputer.” Oooo…kay? Usually, this kind of stuff she just took care of at the Clock Tower, having a setup of the same caliber of Bruce’s. Plus, Dami was here, very clearly eavesdropping, no matter how much he was pretending to be all of a sudden willing to watch the show without his signature complaining. 

“Is it case related?” Barbara shook her head no, and okay, that was why she was in the living room talking about it in front of Damian but still didn’t explain why she wouldn’t just do it on her own system, or even just while she was updating the cave systems. “No, uh, actually it’s a library thing. I wanted to ask you about it.”

It wasn’t case related but it was Something, capital S, not a dangerous issue yet but it had the potential to become one. She wanted to talk to him alone. He nodded, knowing she knew he understood. 

“I’ll meet ya down there in a minute then.” 

Babs wheeled towards the elevator behind the clock, and Dick refocused on Damian, who was yet again scowling. 

“I do not understand why I am not yet permitted to partake in my duties as Robin.” He started, crossing his arms immediately. Dick repressed the urge to sigh. This was not a new argument. “Additionally,” Dami continued, his pompous attitude disproportionately hilarious when paired with his high pitched ten-year-old voice, “It is unreasonable to exclude me from discussions that could affect the future of this city when I am perfectly capable of understanding and assisting with the issues at hand.” 

It was practically word-for-word every single time he wasn’t allowed to get involved with the Bat business. They all knew that at some point, they were gonna have to let Damian use his assassin training and become Robin, but for now, Bruce, Dick, and Alf wanted to keep him as far away from it all as humanely possible. 

“Dami, you heard Babs, this isn’t even a case, it’s to do with her ACTUAL job, yeah? Why don’t you finish this episode and then go find Alfred and play him in chess before bed?” Damian sneered at him. 

“Do not patronize me Grayson, I am not a child. And this show is juvenile.” Damian stood from the couch and stalked off towards the kitchen, probably to go find Alfred to complain to HIM. 

“Love you, Kiddo!” Dick called after him. He smiled when he received a “Tt” in return. 

Dick took the elevator down to the cave and bounced out with a front handspring flip.

“Hiya, Bruce!” he called to B, who was diligently working away. He grunted in acknowledgement but didn’t move his head. Typical. Babs was seated at the computer, staring at the FRS on the screen, but not running it yet. 

An ethical thing, maybe? Babs never hesitated, not as Batgirl and certainly not as Oracle. 

“So, Babs, what’s going on?” He asked lightly, slipping into place next to her at the Batcomputer. “Why d’you need the facial recognition software? You have your own FRS at the Clock Tower, not that I’m not glad to see you.” Barbara pushed her glasses up and sighed like she had upstairs, looking conflicted, which was kind of a new expression for her. 

“I told you it isn’t a case, but it’s still an issue, and I needed an objective eye.” She was straightforward, right to the point, something that being Oracle had amplified. Every second on the comms in the field was crucial. “Plus, I have an update to run on the Batcomputer anyways.” She added as an afterthought. 

Dick frowned and flopped into the unoccupied computer chair that had been shoved to the side so Babs’ wheelchair could fit behind the monitor. The Something was bothering her on a level that wasn’t related to their night jobs, he could tell. 

“Right, you said it was a library thing? ‘S there a criminal or something doing deals at the library, because Bruce and I can track him down tonight.” Dick tried to keep his face from twisting into a concerned expression, with varying degrees of success. She would think it was unhelpful. 

“Just the opposite, actually. Remember the kid I told you about, Tim? The smart one, who I was teaching computer science too?” Okay, Dick, think. Tim…TIM! Tim, Barbara’s Tim from the library, the one she’d met four years ago when she was sixteen, he had been nine. 

She’d spoken highly of him, the few times they’d talked about her library job. As far as he knew, Tim still hung around the library, milking Babs for information on everything under the sun. 

Dick nodded, trying to think out loud and recount the main informational points about the kid. “Yeah…yeah okay. Tim, little kid right? Thirteen now? Uh…good at math, a super genius, great with computers…likes…photography? And also space?” It dawned on him then that TIM was the Something. Either he was in danger or… “Why, did something happen to him?”

Babs shrugged frustratedly, making a noise that was halfway between an angry sigh and a huff. “That’s the problem, Dickie, I don’t know.” She said, using his old nickname. “He shows up sometimes with these bruises, and” she shook her head and gestured to the open program on the Batcomputer, face screwed up, “after not coming in yesterday, he showed up in these dirty clothes with this huge handprint on the side of his face, and I’m worried about him.”

Shite. That didn’t sound good. Bruises at all were bad, but a handprint? Like he’d been slapped maybe? Honestly, it really sounded like an abuse case, but when paired with dirty clothes, it could be something else. 

Like drug running. 

“So, uh, what do you think’s going on?” he asked, trying not to jump to a conclusion that would sound bad right away, wondering if Babs had any other evidence that disproved the unpleasant drug theory. “And the FRS?” now he nodded to the computer. Barbara knew his name was Tim, already, and she could find out anything about anyone in seconds. 

She shook her head again, looking just…tired. “I…I snapped a few pictures. Look, Dick, I don’t…” Babs tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, distracting her hands. Guilt? “I don’t know who he is. Like his last name, anything. He’s just a kid, and the library is my actual job, so it’s always felt wrong to go digging around in his life. But now…with the bruises…”

So THAT was the ethical issue. She was worried about betraying her ACTUAL job. Also, having Babs say she didn’t know someone’s last name was SUPER weird. She was the Oracle, all-knowing. But he understood. “Babs, I get it. You can’t just do nothing, I get it. Pull up the pictures and we’ll see what we can find out.”

“I…yeah. Okay. Here.” Barbara tapped the touchpad and pulled a few photos of a young face. But…it was NOT some street kid, who hung out at the library trying to learn that ended up getting wrapped up in some bad stuff, like he’d expected. 

The face was familiar. A small boy, who he’d met at galas, who had very rich parents and a very bright future. His next-door neighbor, Timothy Drake. 

“I don’t think you’re gonna need to run that software, Babs. That’s little Timmy Drake. He’s our neighbor.”

And Babs was right, about the handprint, it was massive. Took up half his face all purple and swollen and painful looking. But…Tim was a rich kid. Like, a RICH KID. The Drakes ran a Fortune 500 company that rivaled Wayne Enterprises, it was massive, and they were loaded. 

There was no reason that Timmy would ever need to go and be a drug runner, or a pickpocket, or anything else that could end with getting slapped like that. So why the heck was this little kid running around Gotham with bruises like that?

God, did that mean Jack and Janet Drake would…would do something like that?

“Wait, Dick. Drake, like, Drake Industries? THE Drakes?” Babs interrupted his train of thought, face creased in confusion and disbelief. “I…that doesn’t make any sense!” It really, really didn’t. 

“Babs, I dunno. That bruise in the picture looks pretty bad.” He learned closer to the computer screen, where Tim’s headshots stared back at him, little-kid face all screwed up in concentration, hair falling into his eyes. She tugged at her ponytail in frustration, and Dick knew she was coming up with the same conclusions that he was.

“D’you think they could be…could they have given him that handprint?” Dick zoomed in on the picture with the clearest shot of the bruises on his face. None of them liked working abuse cases, it made their stomachs roil. 

They were some of the absolute most important cases they solved, but boy did they hit close to home. Every single time that Nightwing or Robin had comforted a scared little kid it hit him in the gut, ‘that could have been me.’ Because really, they were all still kids. 

“I…I don’t really know the Drakes all that well, I’ve only really met them at galas, but I’ve known they’re our neighbors, and Tim’s always seemed like a sweet kid. I couldn’t imagine…” Dick let his words trail off, knowing Barbara would get what he was trying to say without saying. He couldn’t imagine anyone hitting their kid like that. Bruce had made his share of mistakes, but every time he’d so much as skinned his knee as Robin, B had hated it. 

Thinking of some parent looking at a child with the kind of vitriol it would take to plant their hand on their cheek was unfathomable. 

“Oh, what am I gonna do?” Barbara groaned. “Dick, he comes to the library almost every day, but every few months there’ll be two or three weeks when he barely comes at all? Should we check…like, check into the Drakes’ financial history? Travel history? See if anything suspicious is going on?”

Dick frowned a little, chewing his lip contemplatively. He knew that Babs had asked about this because she felt too close to the case, because she wanted an impersonal game plan, but that was difficult, not just because it was his neighbor, but because it was a kid, a kid who could maybe be being hurt in his home. 

Finally, he said “Yeah okay. What if you did a quick scan of the Drakes’ lives after patrol is wrapped up, and we can regroup tomorrow afternoon and go over everything, make a plan? The Drake estate is next to ours, I could coerce Damian into going over there and trying to weasel some info out of Timmy.”

Damian would do absolutely ANYTHING to score the promise of ‘Robin training,’ despite the fact that all Dick ever taught him to do was a few flips and tricks from his circus days. Also, Dami would jump at the chance to do a ‘mission,’ breaking into a mansion to do recon would be something he immediately saw as a way to prove his skills to Bruce and/or Dick. 

Babs looked satisfied with his plan though, giving him a firm nod. “Alright. Thanks, Dick. I appreciate it.” 

Dick grinned at her. “Anytime, Babs! Now I gotta go suit up. Don’t let Dami down here, he has to get up early tomorrow for a playdate with Jon!”

Barbara hummed in affirmation, already turned back to the Batcomputer. Dick made his way to the locker room and pulled on the Nightwing suit, slapping a domino on. B had probably been suited for hours already, brooding around down here in silence instead of going upstairs and actually spending time with Damian, his entire son. 

It was one of the main reasons why Dick worried about living in Bludhaven, away from them all. He wondered if Bruce spent any time with Dami at all, or if he was treating him like a freaking soldier instead of a traumatized ten-year-old.

Jason’s death had ruined all of them, but none of the rest had imploded like Bruce. It had taken almost a year before he would speak to any of them outside of the mask for anything not absolutely pressing, and it had almost ruined the family. 

Now, it was like he was scared of having a kid again, scared of caring about anyone, and he refused to acknowledge how it was hurting Damian, being treated like a soldier instead of a son. Even though Jason was back, alive and (relatively) well, Bruce was like a brick wall. 

The fact that Jay had come back wrong at first, filled with unbridled rage and an absolute hatred for Bruce, it had ripped him apart all over again. He was only just now starting to care again, starting to be the Bruce that Dick knew Before. 

Batman and Nightwing rolled out of the cave not long after, O on the comms directing them along their patrol route. It was a few hours on small, nonsensical crimestopping. Sometimes he worked with Bruce and sometimes he split off along his own designated patrol route. All easy, basic stuff. Around midnight, just when most of the petty crime had tapered off, Babs called.

“Hey, N,” she said.

“Here, O. Got something for us?” The line crackled for a minute, meaning, yes, she did have something, but was thinking, mapping an effective game plan before passing it over to them. 

“Just you for this one, N. Explosion over at the Drake Industries building, Diamond District. Uh, Red Hood’s involved. Batman, I’ve got a robbery, Upper West Side, by the hospital, Schnapp and Cameron.” 

Batman grunts moodily from his spot on the building next to Dick, and he launches himself into the air without a word. Dick resists the urge to roll his eyes at Bruce’s dramatics. He’s the one who refuses to give a single inch when it comes to the Red Hood. Dick’s made compromises and as a result, he’s able to start rebuilding his relationship with his younger brother. Bruce won’t though, clutching to his high-and-mighty attitude. 

“Hey Babs, you said at the Drake Industries building? That’s Timmy’s parents’ building, do you think it could be connected?” Dick says into the comm as he sets off towards the Diamond District. 

“I dunno, N. But I don’t have a great feeling about this. It seems kind of off, but I haven’t had a chance to run through the Drakes’ lives yet, so it isn’t like I have any leads. Maybe Hood’s just having a night.” 

‘A night.’ Right. 

Dick still loved his brother, still cared a whole heck of a lot about him. Like he’d said, he made some compromises, they were finally starting to talk again. But the Red Hood was not the Robin he’d known from Before. 

The Red Hood was violent, a killer, vengeful. Like, tonight, when he’d gone and blown up a building in the freaking Diamond District, about as far as he could get from his portion of Gotham, which they’d all agreed to steer clear of, even Black Bat, who could very easily avoid Jason, even in his home turf. 

Jason was still his brother, that would never change. But Nightwing and the Red Hood? They weren’t partners. In the future maybe there would be cases they could work on together, but right now, the Red Hood was a murderer. 

It didn’t take long for Dick to find the explosion, what with the smoke filling the sky. Babs’ line crackled in his ear.

“Right, Nightwing, almost there. Do you see the fire yet, should be at your…two o’clock?”

“Yeah, O, I’m here.” Dick stared towards the fire, searching for the Red Hood. Bingo. Jason was shooting a line upwards, aimed towards the building next to him. “I uh, oh, shoot, here he comes. Nightwing out.” Dick closed the comm line hastily, not wanting to involve Babs in this particular conversation. 

Dick leaps over to the next rooftop just as the Red Hood enters the air, sticking his own landing just as Jason lands right in front of him, shoulders tensing right away. 

“Nightwing,” Jason growls, clearly very annoyed that Dick’s here to foil what is probably a night of Jason’s version of ‘eat the rich.’ He’s poised to bolt, hand resting near one of his guns, ready to fight if he needs to. 

Dick crosses his arms and shoot him a glare. “Hood.” He doesn’t want this to end in a throwdown, but even though this IS his brother, he cannot permit the Red Hood to run rampant around Gotham, doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Like, blowing up important buildings in the Diamond District? That’s a no-no. 

“What’s goin’ on, Goldie?” the Red Hood drawls. Dick kind of wants to yank his hair out, because what else would be going on but the flames behind his brother? It’s obvious he’s stalling by trying to annoy him, though, so Dick tries to move past it. 

“Hood, why the hell would you go and blow up a tech company? What are you doing?” Dick waves an incredulous hand at the destruction behind him. “I mean, B and I ignore the explosions in Crime Alley, okay? But you can’t just destroy a tech company by the Diamond District whenever you want!”

Jason mutters, “Slow your roll there, ‘Wing, Christ, you’ll have an aneurysm.” But Dick ignores the jab. He really cannot think of any other obvious reason why Jason would be blowing up Drake Industries except to steal tech, since they ARE a tech company. Probably Jason started running low on stolen Bat tech, and this is his idea of a good plan to restock.

“Come on, Hood, you KNOW you can’t just blow up whatever you want! What tech were you even trying to steal? You’ve always just stolen from B whenever you need gear, and by the way, he totally knows about that, he isn’t an idiot. Think of all of the civilians who could have been injured! We’re supposed to PROTECT the city, not destroy it!”

Jason looks a mixture of bored and annoyed, and it only fuels his annoyance. “This is the Diamond District, not some random warehouse in the Bowery, people are gonna notice this! And have to pay for it! You’re supposed to set an example for the citizens of Gotham-”

“Jesus, ‘Wing, I blew up their fucking drug lab, okay? Not that I really need to justify anything to you, of all people.” Jason snaps, cutting him off. 

“-and really, Little Wing, what’s Little D gonna think….” But…what did Jason just say? What? “wait, drug lab?” A…a drug lab? In Drake Industries? That’s a hefty accusation, and a massive issue. 

“Yes, dumbass, DRUG LAB.” Jay starts, and oh, great, he’s found an excuse to be a total prick. “Should I spell it for you? D, R, U-”

“Hood, stop it. What drug lab?” He wants to pinch his noise, but that would only give his brother the satisfaction of having gotten to him. “What’s going on?” 

Jason scoffs, sounding very not-in-a-cooperative-conversational-mood. “Screw you, N, I’m not tellin’ you shit.” Right. Like Babs isn’t going to find out for all of them in like a day. “Now can you butt outta my case? It’s covered.” 

Oh, right. Covered. By the Red Hood. Dick crosses his arms. If it’s a case that involves explosions in the Diamond District, so far away from the Red Hood’s territory, then he and B definitely have business getting involved.

“Hood, how many people are going to die when you say you’ve ‘got it?’” If this is the first time they’re hearing about the drug lab, then that means it’s the beginning of the case. Which means more explosions are in the near future. Which means that the lives of some people-criminals, yes, but still people-are in danger. A lot of it. 

“As many as it takes for me to not have to find any more fourteen-year-olds pumped full of opioids and dead behind dumpsters, fuckface.” Dick flinches back, stomach twisting. Because Jason hadn’t been found drugged up in an alley, but it’s the same idea, a dead kid who got mixed up in something bad, a dead kid who didn’t deserve it, a dead kid, crumpled and still and leaving behind a parent, a best friend…a brother. 

“Ja-Hood, I…look, I…I didn’t mean to…” Dick tries to course-correct, knowing that a lecture wasn’t they way to go with this, but the Red Hood is moving towards the edge of the roof, already deciding that their conversation is over. “Wait!” Dick calls, trying to keep him here. “Wait, okay, Hood, I didn’t mean to start, like, criticizing you again! I just wanna understand what’s going on so I can help!” 

Dick holds his hands in a gesture of surrender, hoping against hope that the Red Hood gives him just another minute. It’s a fruitless effort, of course. 

“Well, sorry Nightwing, but I don’t really want your help, because I don’t really want to deal with B at all, preferably for as long as I live. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patrol to finish.” 

Mocking even through the metal helmet, Jason swan dives off the roof, firing his grapple. Dick doesn’t try to go after him. It’s pointless and would serve only to piss him off. 

With a defeated sigh, he turns away from the burning building-the fire department is on the scene now-and starts back towards his normal patrol route. 

“Oracle, come in.” he comms, knowing Babs is probably still a little annoyed at him for cutting the line for his ‘conversation’ with Jay. 

“Nightwing, here. What happened, do you need backup?” she asks, cool as a cucumber, just straight to the point, just as grounding as always. He needs to have lunch with Babs sometime before he heads back to Bludhaven. 

“No, but O, Hood said that he had blown up a drug lab. Like, an honest-to-god drug lab under Drake Industries. O, he…aargh!” Dick’s annoyed, blood still running hot since the Red Hood dismissed him and leapt away. He had just about nothing, no details or names or even any proof that that’s what happened. 

“Okay, back up. Tell me what happened, and I’ll look at it.” Oracle states firmly, demanding an explanation. Okay, so maybe he should’ve kept the comm line open. “But Nightwing, do you think that the Red Hood is a threat right now?” 

…Was he? 

Was Jason a threat right now? Was he gonna go blow up another Fortune 500 company somewhere, or go find another duffle bag to fill with heads? No, no he didn’t wanna think about that yet, he could answer Babs’ first question though, the mission-oriented one. 

“I met Hood on the rooftop, tried to confront him about the explosion. He told me he had blown up a drug lab, didn’t specify anything. I tried to offer help, y’know, tried to apologize for accidentally lecturing him, you know he’s always hated that, but he told me he had it covered and to fudge off, and then he just jumped off the rooftop, and I let him go.”

There, that’s a pretty solid summary, so two thumbs up for Dick Grayson!

“Okay, did he sound like he was about to go blow up a half dozen warehouses for kicks, though?” She presses, “Or was he more organized?” Wow, okay, yeah. Uh…yeah, okay, wow. 

“When’s the Red Hood EVER sounded organized?” Dick asks, picturing a tiny Jason Todd, age twelve, standing in the kitchen, covered in flour, grinning, with half of the contents of one of the pantries strewn across the floor. 

(He’d been trying to reach the M&Ms.)

Then, before he can stop himself, he pictures Jason Todd, age fourteen, opening his backpack in the living room only to have three books, two half-eaten granola bars, and an entire ream of paper’s worth of worksheets and tests spill out and onto the carpet. Bruce had been horrified. 

(He’d been looking for a FOURTH book, one that was at the bottom of the bag and hadn’t fallen out.)

“Ok, but N, do you think that you need to go after him right now?” Babs asks, probably getting a little impatient, which he can’t fault her for. If Jason was on an unstable rampage, he didn’t have time to reminisce. But he hadn’t seemed unstable, just annoyed.

“I…no. No, I don’t think so, nobody was hurt in the explosion.” There had been no screaming civilians or people coming out in stretchers, just a few spooked security guards out front, talking to the cops. “But if he IS working a drug case that involves the Drakes, don’t you think we ought to look into it?” 

Dick thought they should. In fact, he wanted to get B and march across Gotham to find the Red Hood, and demand that he pass over the case, since it clearly wasn’t just a crime alley thing. But also, he was just coming down from an argument, and he was way too biased to make a decision 

That was the difference between Nightwing and Dick Grayson, he supposed. Nightwing was a detective, but Dick Grayson wasn’t even old enough to drink, much less decide upon the future of Gotham City. 

Babs sighed through the comm line. “Nightwing, I think you should probably just finish your patrol. I’ll keep tabs on the drug thing for now, look into it for…T’s sake, make sure that people aren’t getting hurt. But it isn’t our case.” 

That was…that was okay. And he’d totally forgotten about Timmy Drake, at that point. Were the two things related? And with Babs looking over everything, she could determine the threat level of the drug case, and also be a good middle ground. Right now, Jay didn’t consider Oracle to be a 100% Bat thing, since her base of operations was separate and she branched out more, working with different teams, even selecting her own protegee to train without Bruce’s influence. 

He would be much more open to an olive branch from Babs because that’s what it would be: an olive branch from JUST Babs. Coming from Dick, it would connect right back to Bruce, which was a big no-no. If something was really wrong, or if the case was too big for one person to handle, Barbara would be able to reach out to the Red Hood, establish a shaky partnership, and work through it without any dramatic familial fights. 

He started back towards his regular patrol route, hoping nothing major happened for the rest of the night. He needed time to process everything, to work through it all in his head. Tomorrow, he would wake up, spend some time with Dami, and work on the trapeze in the cave. 

Tomorrow, he would ask Babs if she wanted to get breakfast to catch up, or call Wally, or have tea with Alfred before suiting up again to find out about whether or not Drake Industries had a drug lab. 

But tonight, right now, he was Nightwing, and that was what was most important in the moment. That was what mattered the most right now. 

So Dick pushed all thoughts of the Red Hood and Tim Drake from his head, and swung across the Gotham skyline. He had a city to protect, tonight.  


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	11. Chapter 11 (Jason)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my fav chapters so far, I wrote the whole thing in like one day because I was having so much fun. And I know I say it every single time, but you guys, your comments are SO SWEET and I wanna give u all the WORLD there is nothing I like better than reading them <3
> 
> Also! I combined a few chapters, so the chapter count went down a little bit, but don't worry I didn't cut any content :)

The kid fucking LOVED the motorcycle. 

Like, yeah, Jason himself adored his bikes, spent his free time working on them, rode them as often as possible, and complained to Roy every single time he had to scrap one of them. 

Timmy, though? His arms started out tight around Jason’s middle, his tiny little body all tensed up behind him, trying to keep them from touching but at the same time trying to press as close as possible so he didn’t fall off. 

By the time they were halfway through the ride, though? Tim was lax, arms loose, trying to stifle the happy little giggles coming from his mouth every time they flew around a corner or sped up on an open stretch of road. 

Jason was a little disappointed, actually, when they did reach his safehouse and Tim had to reluctantly slide off the bike. He pulled the oversized helmet off his head, hair sticking up in every direction, but that wasn’t the part that Jason really cared about, no matter how adorable it was. 

No, the part that Jason cared about was the massive, giddy smile that stretched across Tim’s entire face, the type that made his eyes crinkle up in a way that looked foreign on him, the type that made him look like an actual, regular, sitcom-type-happy-family-80’s-movie kid, one that like, played four-square at recess or some shit. Not one who grew up lonely and sad and hurt, not one who flinched at loud noises and tall men. 

Jason made a vow then and there to take Timmy on the bike literally WHENEVER possible. Looking at Tim not even attempting to wipe the breathlessly HAPPY expression off his face, holding his helmet with his hair poofed up and looking up at him with eyes so genuinely sparkling, Jason kind of understood Bruce’s tendency to sweep kids off the street whenever possible. 

(He didn’t understand Bruce’s tendency to let said kids fight CRIME in fucking GOTHAM, but that was just a Bruce thing, Jason thought.)

Jason stuck the spare helmet back in the saddlebag of his bike and popped his hood off, tucking it under his arm, shooting a grin at Tim. He was just SO endearingly happy, and God, he wanted to prolong it forever, so the kid never had to deflate back into the version of himself that Jack and Janet Drake had created. 

“C’mon, Timmy, new safehouse to show ya.” Jason flicked his chin up towards the apartment building that flanked the alley they were in with the bike. 

“Um, are you just gonna…take the elevator?” Tim asks, face all scrunched up confusedly. Jason snorted, reaching over and lightly ruffling Tim’s hair (it was all mussed up from the helmet and he couldn’t resist, okay?). 

“Nah, Kiddo, I’m taking the fire escapes up. Why don’t you go take the elevator, though, and meet me on-”

“Floor five, room two, I know.” Tim mumbled absentmindedly, staring up the fire escapes, brain probably still reeling from the motorcycle ride. Of course, Tim knew just about every goddamn safehouse he owned. Usually, he’d be pretty pissed about that, but he can’t manage to feel anything about it but stupid goddamn endearment. 

“Uh, yeah. Right. I’ll open the door for you, yeah?” Tim turned his massive fucking puppy eyes back his way, massive smile mostly dissipated but face still glowing. He bit his lip, nodding. 

“Y-yeah.” And Tim turned towards the end of the alley to go find the front door to the complex. 

Scaling the fire escapes was quick, easy work for Jason, who still wasn’t all that sure HOW exactly he was gonna deal with Tim, and he disarmed his security systems before sliding in the window. 

Wow, was he fucked. 

Okay, so game plan? Because right now, Jason had a tiny, traumatized, super-genius kid on his way up to the SECOND safehouse of his that he’d be in, and absolutely no idea what to do about it. Well, one thing was for sure, there was NO WAY that he was leaving Tim to fend for himself and sleep behind dumpsters for the next couple of weeks, until the Drake drug industry was gone. That just wasn’t happening, especially not after the kid had given up his ability to stay home in order to deliver a shit load of evidence to the Red Hood. There was no telling what would happen to him, whether he would even be alive long enough to get shucked off to foster care. 

But it also wasn’t like he could just…take him in, like a stray cat. Children weren’t animals, and they weren’t disposable, and they deserved stable homes and happy families that loved them, none of which he could give Tim. Besides, how would he even keep his identity safe for that long, wear the fucking domino to bed? 

But…

To be fair…

Jason Todd was dead, legally. And he was also the son of Brucie Wayne, Gotham’s resident Rich Dumbass Airhead. And whereas Robin he had never been small built, now he was a whole lot bigger, stronger, and meaner, not to mention the white streak of hair. Plus, he and Tim hadn’t ever been friends, only occasionally seeing each other at galas. 

Also, how much did the domino masks really even cover anyways?

The problem with THAT though, was that Timbo was nothing short of a goddamn genius, so he’d probably take one look and run his face through a fucking photo bank more inclusive than even Babs’. 

So, a dilemma. 

The one thing Jason did know for sure though was that Tim was not going back to his parents and he was not going back to his dirty alley. And now, after his little mediation job in Robinson Park, Bruce and Dick were gonna be looking for both him and Jason, and if Bruce found Tim, he would send him right home, back to Jack and Janet to be used as their personal opioid pincushion. 

So that really didn’t leave any realistic options. 

But this safehouse didn’t just have a bedroom, it also had a pull-out couch. Neither Bruce nor Dick knew about this one, and where Babs definitely knew, she wasn’t gonna say anything. She also didn’t seem to have figured out his safehouse switching pattern like Timmy had either. 

There was like, a nice TV, and extra towels and blankets, and a good kitchen. And yeah, admittedly, Jason himself wasn’t exactly great at taking care of people, since really he wasn’t even an adult yet, just a way-too-mature seventeen-year-old with way too many issues. But Tim still had that handprint on his face, and he was too small and too skinny and too young to be that cautious of the world, and Tim had bawled his eyes out and then passed out in his lap less than 24 hours ago. 

So, really, it was only for a few weeks, just until he could take down Drake Industries. He could keep his identity safe for just a few weeks, try and help the kid out, make sure his parents didn’t find him. It would be fine. 

That was the mindset Jason had when he swung open the door at Tim’s hesitant knock and waved him inside. 

Tim still had on Jason’s shirt and sweatpants, and okay, yeah if he was actually gonna do this, actually give the kid his couch and food and all, the clothing thing would need to be reconciled. Shit, this was going to be a mess. 

Once he’d sat the kid down on his couch and made a scene of sprawling back on the other end of it so he’d relax, Jason started talking. 

“Soooo…you and Ivy are buddies, huh?” He kept his tone lighthearted so Tim didn’t get all freaked out and decide to bolt again, but yeah, that was definitely an important point to cover. How the FUCK had Tim gotten into Ivy’s clearing and how the FUCK did they know each other and also, HOW the FUCK had he gotten Ivy to agree to feed information to fucking Batman instead of…like…just doing it on her own? 

Tim flinched a little from where he was perched on the couch, but, Jason noticed, his hands were still. He wasn’t wiping them yet, they weren’t shaking. That was progress. 

“She…um, me and Dr. Isley…we’re uh, I think…I think we’re friends?” he stuttered out, forehead creasing a little bit in a lost sort of way. Jason nodded even though that made absolutely zero sense because Poison Ivy literally liked two people in the entire world, three if you counted Babs, and all of them were badass chicks. 

None of them fell anywhere close to shy, quiet, little boy who stalked Ivy’s enemies for kicks. 

Although, remembering Tim’s massive, face-splitting grin from outside, and the way he had looked so genuinely confused when Jason tried to tell him what love was, and the small little contented way he leaned into any touch, it really wasn’t all that hard to imagine that Tim’d somehow managed to charm Poison fucking Ivy. 

“Right, how’d you meet then?” Jason asked instead of saying all of that, trying to get Timmy to volunteer more information. 

The kid shuffled his feet, looking down at the worn carpet, but his hands weren’t shaking yet. “I, uh, I was taking pictures. Of a fight. Like, between her and Batman. Her uh…” He screwed his face up, looking unsure. “Her…connection to plants? Or something? It told her I was hiding in a tree watching them. She, um…”

Tim really did look embarrassed now, picking at the shirt he was wearing as his cheeks flamed up. “She offered me an apple and asked what I was doing. I’d never been caught before.”

Jason snorts at this, imagining a terrified Timmy facing down Poison Ivy telling him to get the fuck outta her trees, and also, because Bruce-goddamn-Wayne, Batman, the World’s Greatest Detective, never noticed him for the entire four years he was practically stalking him, but Poison Ivy finds him the very first time. 

“So, what, you guys just…” He trails off and waves his hand around, waiting for Tim to finish. The kid shrugs tentatively. 

“I dunno, really, we just kinda…talked. I didn’t realize…um, Dr. Isley is a very nice person, and…y’know, she and Dr. Quinzel and Ms.Kyle are always so nice to me? I dunno, Dr. Isley always gave me fruit and we always talked in the Park after she would fight Batman or something would happen with…”

Tim’s voice trails off, and he rubs his palms together, ducking his head. “It’s just…the…y’know, the Joker…he’s…he’s pretty awful to her.” He choked at the end. Jason’s stomach tightened immediately at the mention of the Joker, fists clenching involuntarily. 

“Because she’s like…she and Dr. Quinzel are dating? So when…when the fight started, I was just so worried that Batman was gonna stick her back in Arkham.” The ‘with HIM’ is silent, but tacked on the end there all the same, and Christ on a corndog is this kid not the bravest human being to walk planet Earth?

Who else, in all of fucking Gotham, would befriend Ivy and her Sirens and then just march into the middle of one of her and B’s iconic showdowns and just…demand they forge a truce? Who else fucking does that? Who else calls Poison Ivy DOCTOR fucking ISLEY, and Harley Quinn Dr. Quinzel? Who else thinks about how they’d be in danger in Arkham because of Harley’s shitty ex? 

There’s not a single person in all of fucking Gotham who’s just that GOOD of a fucking person. Nobody but Timmy Drake, who’s too small and too sad and so desperate for any shred of affection but will completely disregard his own safety to help out one of the goddamn Gotham Rogues. 

Jason shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “You’re really somethin’ else, you know that Timbo?” 

Timmy squinted towards him, coughing awkwardly into his hand (which still wasn’t shaking). “I just…she’s my friend, ya know? And Dr. Isley doesn’t…she doesn’t want to hurt people. She doesn’t like it. But sometimes…sometimes when there’s an issue you just need to FIX it, and nobody ever cares enough to fix the issues she finds, and doing it, like, legally…It doesn’t always work very well.” 

He shrugged lamely, curling into himself with his cheeks blushing pink again, as if what he’d just said was somehow horrible when in fact, Jason kind of wanted to hug him, because god DAMN. 

Just…

Holy FUCK. 

How many times had he himself had the same types of arguments with Bruce, back when they argued instead of…whatever kind of fights they had now? How many times had he screamed across the cave, ‘the police aren’t going to work fast enough to fix this in time’? How many times had B gone on and on about how they weren’t above the law when them just lightly bruising and ziptie-ing gang leaders and drug lords and cruel, sadistic monsters like the Mad Hatter became a point of contention? How many times would they keep sticking the Joker away the legal way, when he was constantly slaughtering Gothamites like goddamn sacrificial lambs, sacrifices for Bruce’s crusade for the moral high ground?

Yeah, Jason kinda wanted to hug the kid right now, but instead he just nodded, trying his best to communicate that he understood, he really, really got it. 

“Yeah, Kid, I know.” Tim curled his fingers around the edge of the couch, still staring down, but the blush gone. Jason cleared his throat and shifted to sit up more on the couch. 

“So, uh, look, Timbers. I, uh , I don’t really want you stuck on the streets while all of this is going down, Kid.” 

Tim’s head shot up, eyes wide and panicked like a cornered animal. “Nononono, NO, no, I CANNOT go back there! I CAN’T go home!” It wasn’t just his hands, his entire BODY was shaking like he’d just taken a dip in Gotham Harbor or something. 

“No, Tim-”

But Tim kept going, terrified. “No, you don’t understand, they’ll KILL me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t go back!” 

As slowly and gently as he could, Jason lifted his hands to curl around the kid’s shaking shoulders. “Hey, Timbo, NO. I would never ask you to go back to your house, Kiddo. NEVER. Hey, hey, Timmy, Timbers, look at me?”

Jason lifted a hand to Tim’s cheek, turned away, and softer than he had in is entire life, cupped his face, edging it to the side until he locked eyes with the shaking kid. “Timmy, look at me. You,” he brushed the pad of his thumb slowly under Tim’s eye. “Are NEVER going back there. Jack and Janet Drake are never EVER going to lay a hand on you again, do you understand?”

No response, just a bone-tried trembling under his hands and large, wet eyes staring into his. “Timbo, Kiddo, I need you to understand. They’re never touching you again, Bud. Okay?”

This time, Jason received a slow, silent nod, and Tim’s face pressed a little harder into his hand. Jason swept his thumb along his face again, and oh, yeah, Timmy was definitely leaning into it at this point. He let out a small little sigh. 

“’M sorry, I just…didn’t think…” 

“Hey, no, Timbers. No apologies, ‘s okay. But I’m not leaving you to take your little naps behind your dumpster, okay?” 

Tim shook his head a little and Jason pulled his hands away from the boy. “I can’t go anywhere, they’ll just call the cops, and the cops will take me back to my parents.”

With an impish grin, Jason said, “Well I know one place where nobody’s gonna find you. Right here.” 

“I-what?” Timmy looked so sincerely confused, he wanted to take a picture of his face, eyebrows all scrunched together and forehead all wrinkled and mouth twisted into a knot. This fucking kid. 

Jason leaned forward on his knees and splayed his hands out. “Look Timbo, this couch is a pull-out and I make some mean pancakes. I’m not gonna let you go back to sleep on the asphalt where anyone could find you, especially now that Nightwing and Batman are probably all up in arms searching for you.”

I’m not gonna let you do what I did, Jason thinks, his bones aching with a phantom soreness that only comes with spending months in cardboard boxes and on doorsteps with no food and no shelter, scared and cold and alone. 

At least Jason was used to it, used to fending for himself and going hungry and dodging broken bottles and switchblades by the time he ended up truly homeless. But Tim? Tim wasn’t rough and hard and cold like he had been, Tim was all soft edges and gentleness, and yeah, the kid was undoubtedly a badass even if he didn’t realize it himself, but he was too pure and good to last long out there, on the streets. 

And he didn’t deserve it. 

No kid did. 

“I…but…but I don’t…Hood, I don’t have any money, I can’t pay you for that.” The kid stammered out, this sad, lost expression etched onto his face, and Christ, did he really think HE was the one that would owe HIM? After all he’d done to get all that evidence against the Angel Juice to the Red Hood? The fuck?

“Timbo, the hell? All that evidence you brought me, you could probably convince me to sign over one of my fuuuuuu…freaking apartments to you, Kid!” Fuck, it was gonna be difficult to not swear around the kid. Damn. 

Tim’s eyes widen like fucking Bambi, like it was such a goddamn surprise that anyone wanted to give him anything for any reason. His heart constricted in his chest, just a little, as he watched an array of emotions play across the kid’s face. Shock, disbelief, confusion, hope. 

Hope wasn’t usually something that anyone looked at the Red Hood with, like he was a hero or a savior or something. Gratitude, sure, fear, all the time, but hope? Not since he was in the pixie boots as Robin. God was it nice, though. 

“Are,” Tim coughed a little bit, voice cracking. “Are you sure?” 

Jason offered a soft smile, and godDAMN if Dick could see him now, playing older-brother to a thirteen year old, he would NEVER leave him alone. “Course, Timmy. Couch is yours. Now,”

Jason stood and stretched, locking his hands above his head to pop his back. “How about some chili?” 

Half an hour later, Jason and Tim sat at the counter, working their way through the massive pot of chili Jason had been slow-cooking for hours now. Timmy, of course, was still barely halfway through his tiny little baby serving, picking around the tomato chunks and nibbling like a goddamn bunny rabbit. 

Jason had eaten half the pot. 

The Red Hood wasn’t patrolling tonight, but the appearance at Robinson Park to ‘fight’ Ivy and Harley would be noted, so it wasn’t like the streets were gonna run rampant with crime after all the early excitement. 

There was no way, with Tim still shooting him sideways wide-eyes, like he was expecting to be kicked out at any second. If he bolted again and left another fucking stupid note, Jason was gonna blow up half the city. 

But the side-eyes had been dwindling, and he wasn’t eating his chili as primly as he was at first anymore, and his hands hadn’t trembled since they were on the couch, so maybe this was all gonna be okay. 

“So Timmy,” Jason started, scraping chili off the sides of his bowl before pushing it away. “Is there anything you need from your house besides, like, clothes? Because tomorrow I’m gonna break in and steal you some of those.” 

Tim flinched and dropped his spoon in shock, head whipping around to face him. “You-what? You can’t just…what if they…”

He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, stretching backwards. “Timbo, I’m the Red Hood. Like, I’ve literally broken into places so top-secret that the CIA has no idea they even exist. The mansion of some miserable rich drug lords? Cakewalk.”

Tim tugged at the hair at the back of his neck nervously, eyes flicking back down to his half-eaten bowl of chili. “Uh, my camera would be nice. My pictures, too? If it’s no trouble? Um, you can leave my computer and stuff, everything’s like, 100% clean.” Jason nodded, dropping his napkin wads onto his plate. 

“Sure thing, Timbo. Pictures?” Predictably, his pale face flushed red. 

“Just…you know…the uh,” He tugged at his hair, eyes averted. “The Batman ones?” Ah, yes. His genius stalker photos. That would be kinda weird to see, a younger, happier version of him in the scaly panties, fighting alongside Bruce.

But he didn’t make a big deal of it, just grunting in affirmation and grabbing the pot of leftover food. “Timbo, you better finish that bowl, Kid, but if you aren’t gonna have a second serving, I’m gonna stick this in the fridge.” 

Guiltily, he shook his head and picked up his spoon again, taking a small nibble. Timmy was so small, way too small, and probably all bony and light too. Even his own clothes had hung off of him, and Damian wasn’t even a big kid, but he was three years younger and still bigger than Tim. It was ridiculous. 

Jason poured the leftover chili into a Tupperware and shoved it into the fridge, dumping his plate into the sink to wash later. He didn’t mention it to Tim, but he was also 100% going to be stealing some nice, shiny, expensive artifacts and heirlooms from Drake Manor as well. 

Most of the money Jason made acting as the Red Hood came from dangerous operations he took down, so he took just what he really needed to keep his vigilante-ism going, but donated the rest back into the community, places like Leslie’s clinic and the soup kitchens. This, though? Stealing from rich assholes who hit their kid? Yeah, nope, no guilt there. 

Finally, Tim swallowed his last bite of chili, and despite his protests, Jason took his bowl and washed it, ignoring the kid blathering on behind him about ‘repaying him’ or whatever. 

“How about we set up the pullout, yeah? Slap some sheets on it, find a blanket?” Tim’s just standing awkwardly in the kitchen, like a Sim who hasn’t gotten any instructions, until Jason suggests this, so Tim nods, eager to be helpful or useful or whatever the fuck he thought he needed to be. Jesus. 

Tim pulls the cushions off the couch and into a very neat stack as Jason unearths a spare set of clean sheets from the laundry closet, a pillow, and a soft blue blanket. Turns out, Timmy Drake can march right up to Poison Ivy and negotiate truces with no problem, but he cannot put a fitted sheet on a bed for the life of him. 

It’s such an adorably childish problem to have that Jason cannot even be annoyed as the opposite corner springs free for the THIRD TIME and Tim groans, planting his face into his hands. “It’s beaten me.” He declares, since Jason had already told him the next time he apologizes for something so stupid, he’s going to only get the ugly clothes from Tim’s room the next day. The apologies themselves had stopped, but not the woeful, apologetic grimaces. 

Jason chuckles and finally moves to help Tim a little more. “You’re too small for this, Kiddo.” He teases lightly as he tucks the offending corner back around the pullout. Another grimace comes his way but this one isn’t quite so apologetic. He smirks to himself. 

Together, they toss the sheet and the blanket over the bed, Tim finally having decided that insisting, “Oh, no, that’s okay, you don’t need to help! It’s, fine, really, I don’t want to be a bother!’ wasn’t getting him anywhere at all. It’s progress. 

“Okay, so tomorrow, we can just fold it back up, sheets and all, no problem.” The corner of Tim’s lip pulls up into a smile. 

“Thank you.” Tim says softly and earnestly, staring at him with his big Bambi eyes, and Jason knows he isn’t just talking about the couch. 

“Yeah Kiddo,” and if his voice is a little gravelly with emotion, whatever. “It’s no big deal.” And maybe Tim doesn’t quite get it now, but he will. Christ, Jason’s going to make sure that he gets it one day, that he really gets that people should take care of him just because he’s TIM, that he deserves that simply for existing. 

He clears his throat before he goes and does something stupid like getting emotional and pats the bed. “Right then, Timbo, it’s past your bedtime and I’m tired. Big day of raiding your mansion tomorrow, so you’d better get some sleep.”

Also, he should definitely call Roy and Kori and tell them he’s accidentally found a roommate who is four years younger than him and a supergenius before they find out themselves and start freaking out, but he doesn’t need to tell that to Tim, who’s trying to stifle a yawn. Last night was a late one, and the night before he’d slept in fucking alley, so the kid is totally wiped. 

Jason’s never minded the occasional early night either, even if it’s almost midnight. Early. Right. 

Tim makes a face when Jason says the bedtime thing and then instantly tries to hide it, which is adorable, but then he nods and yawns, shuffling onto the bed. 

“G’night, Hood.” The kid murmurs as he burrows into the blanket and sheet, a tiny little lump with just a poof of black hair sticking out onto the pillow. Jason smiles tenderly at said lump before he turns towards his bedroom.

“Night, Timmy.” 

…He’ll call Roy and Kori tomorrow. 

Jason is a fantastic cook and he fucking knows it, thank you very much. He’s just had pancakes the other day, but Alfred taught him to make a mean omelet, so that’s what he makes, just as soon as he slaps a domino to his face. 

Tim’s still curled on the pullout couch, cocooned in the blanket and positioned right at the edge of the bed. Jason doesn’t really wanna wake him up, but he also really wants breakfast, so he turns on the lights of the kitchen and starts to cook once he wakes.

Turns out, the Wunderkid sleeps like the fucking dead, not even twitching when he’d accidentally banged the frypan against the counter. Jason would be a little worried he’d died of shock or something overnight if not for the steady rise and fall of the cocoon. 

Omelets are fantastic for breakfast because A) they’re fucking delicious, B) they’re both cheap AND quick, and C) they’re hella easy to clean up after. Within a few minutes, he’s plating up two omelets, one significantly bigger than the other, since Tim eats like a bird. 

Hah, a baby bird, that’s what he is. Baby Bird. Hah.

But anyways, just as soon as Jason’s setting the food on the counter and is about to turn and wake the kid, the lump stirs, rolling over to face him. 

Tim blinks groggily, squinting into the light and not looking even like, 50% mentally present. “Up and at ‘em, Timbers! I made breakfast!”

Tim blinks again, extricating one arm from the blanket burrito, which he uses to start to free the rest of him.

“Wha…?” He mumbles, rubbing at his face and screwing his eyes up, mouth half-opening in a silent yawn. Jason grins. Somebody is NOT a morning person. “Wha’ ‘ime i’ ‘t?” Tim mumbles blearily, and Jason has to mentally translate the words slurred with exhaustion. 

“Nine-thirty, Kiddo. Come eat breakfast.” Tim, now free of the sheets, rolls off the side of the bed and shuffles towards the kitchen, eyes squinted against the light and hair sticking out at awkward angles, like a disgruntled kitten. 

He slides into the chair at the counter that’s in front of the smaller omelet, and blinks at it, his face oh-so-slowly creasing in uncertainty. 

“Wha’s…’s this…” Tim lifts his head at the pace of molasses to look at a bemused Jason. “’S this for me?” Christ, he’s so fucking adorable. 

Jason makes an amused noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah Kiddo, it’s all yours. Eat up.” He moves around the counter, sitting at his own chair and cutting into his omelet, stuffing a massive bite into his mouth. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Tim watch him, looking dazed, before he finally picked up his fork and took a small, tentative bite. It’s cartoonish, the way his whole fucking face lights up as if it’s the greatest thing he’s ever eaten in his life, and Jason feels a small burst of pride blooming in his stomach. 

It’s not as if he thought the kid wouldn’t like it or something, but it’s just been so fucking long since anybody’s looked at anything he’s done with such unabashed happiness, and Timmy’s been looking at him like kids used to look at Robin, and it’s pulling his heartstrings like nobody’s business. 

“You like omelets, Timbo?” He asks around a mouthful of egg, ham, and cheese as Timmy shovels food into his mouth in a way that awake-Tim never would. The kid nods vigorously and swallows. 

“I tried to make myself an omelet once, but I caught the stove on fire, so I only ever have cereal and coffee for breakfast now.” He says idly, as if there’s literally nothing wrong with his statement, before stuffing another forkful of omelet back into his mouth. 

Christ, if it wasn’t for all the drug cleanup he needed to do, Jason’d go put a bullet through Jack and Janet Drake’s skulls right this second, because they sure fucking deserved it, for leaving a kid alone for months to make himself breakfast and take himself to school and wander around at night on Gotham’s rooftops stalking vigilantes and making friends with Rogues. 

Timmy probably didn’t even think there WAS a problem with that though, so instead he teases, “All that coffee must be why you’re so short.” Half-Asleep Tim is also apparently way less shy because the glower he receives in return is absolutely legendary. 

Of course, Tim’s reaction time catches up with him, and the glower is replaced by a look of absolute horror, eyes going wide and mouth making a little O-shape. 

“I…didn’t mean to make…that face. I…” He’s stumbling over his words, voice still kinda slurry with post-wakeup tiredness. However adorable it is, Jason’s gotta stop him before he apologizes for something so stupid, so instead he snorts loudly. 

“Christ, Kid, maybe we SHOULD get some coffee into you after all.” Yeah, no, not happening. Thirteen-year-olds needed sleep, not caffeine, especially short thirteen-year-olds with skewed senses of self-preservation. 

But Tim stops his little half-baked apology, choosing instead to take another bite of his omelet. He’s slowing down now that he’s waking up more, eating a bit more properly. 

Once the Kid’s started picking at the rest of the omelet on his plate, no longer hungry, Jason starts to talk. “Right then, Timbers, when are your parents gonna be absent from the house, huh? Can’t have them calling the cops on me.” 

When Jason says “your parents” Timmy flinches back, head ducking automatically, and the familiar swell of the pit flares in his stomach, flickering green in front of him. He resolves to call them just Jack and Janet from now on, because Timbo clearly doesn’t need any more reminders of those asshats. 

He’s fully awake now, so when he mumbles again, it isn’t because he’s just tired, and Jason feels a pang behind his ribcage. Fucking hell, this kid. “Uh…they’re always at work when they’re home from ten to four…uh, at least. So…” He trails off, eyes fixed on an invisible spot on the counter next to Jason’s plate. 

It’s taken him literal seconds to crawl back into his shell, just at the mention of Jack and Janet, and if the kid weren’t here radiating anxiety, Jason would rip through the fucking drywall. How DARE a PARENT do this to their CHILD? There’s an acidic bile rising in his stomach and it takes a massive effort to force it down while keeping his face neutral. 

He clears his throat with a grunt, pushing his plate away. “Sounds good to me. Uh, I’ll be gone for probably like, an hour and a half, yeah?” 

Tim turns wide eyes towards him, hair flopping into his face. “You want me to…stay, like, to...to stay here?” Shit, yeah, he should probably cover that with the kid. 

With Bitchman and Dickwing probably looking for Tim AND Jason, since they clearly knew each other, plus whatever asshole lackeys the Drakes have most likely sent after the kid, it wasn’t exactly a good plan for him to leave the safehouse. Babs was probably helping the Bats since a kid was involved, but none of them would ever think that he’d bring him back to his goddamn safehouse, so he was 99% sure this was a safe zone. 

“Yeah, Kid, after that miracle-work you pulled in Robinson Park with Ivy, Nightwing and Batman are gonna be trying to track you down for a little interrogation. ‘S probably best if you hole up in here for a while.” Tim nods jerkily, eyes flicking back down to the counter. 

“I…I can clean?” There’s a hopeful little lilt to his voice, and Christ, he’s trying to be fucking helpful or useful or whatever. Jason’s about to say hell to the motherfucking NO, but Tim’s hands are twitching just a little bit, gaze downcast but face all serious-looking, and Jason remembers when Bruce first took him in, back when he felt like every single thing the man did for him was a favor he was indebted to. 

He remembers being angry, being pissed as fuck when Alfred wouldn’t let him do his own laundry or bleach the tiles himself, or Bruce wouldn’t let him go out at thirteen to con his way into a job to ‘pull his weight,’ and he remembers the queasy feeling that would settle in his stomach as he waited for the other shoe to drop. 

So instead he chuckles softly, stacking their plates and forks. “Only if you really want to, Timbo. I’ve got spray and Lysol wipes under the sink in the bathroom.” 

Timmy almost falls out the chair in his haste to grab the dishes before Jason himself can wash them, nodding in earnest. He lets him scrub the plates and forks shiny with dish soap but takes them to dry and put away once they’re clean. 

It alleviates the light twitch in his hands, and yeah, okay, the cleaning thing is probably not a bad idea, if it’s gonna get the kid to relax a little bit. 

Jason changes into a pair of jeans and his jacket, tossing on one of his Red Hood t-shirts that he wears when he really doesn’t wanna deal with all the spandex and body armor. Tim is meticulously reconstructing his couch with only minor difficulty as he gets ready for some quality breaking-and-entering, but he pauses his blanket-folding and pillow-fluffing as Jason pops on his helmet and stuffs a gun into his waistband. 

Tim’s eyes follow the path of the pistol before flicking up to Jason’s covered face. “Are you…if…if my parents are there, are you gonna…shoot them?” And his voice just sounds so small, so fucking young, and Christ, he KNEW that this was gonna come up at some point but…

The kid’s just standing there, holding one of the squishy throw pillows with both hands, face carefully blank but eyes wide and pooling with emotion. Fuck, Jason thinks, what the fuck is he supposed to TELL him when he DOES kill Jack and Janet? 

He knows what it’s like, to have some kind of convoluted loyalty towards your parents no matter how shitty they are, Willis Todd’s face flashing across his mind. Catherine had been a junkie that he’d practically had to spoon-feed but finding her dead on the bathroom floor is still the worst day of his life, even including that day in the warehouse in Ethiopia. 

And Timmy’s face is cracking the longer Jason lets the silence stretch on, so he does the only thing he can do-he shakes his head. 

“Nah, Timbo, it’s just a precaution. If anything happens I’ll just freak ‘em out a little, scare ‘em. That’s it.” FUCK that’s a promise he doesn’t wanna hold himself to, but what else was he gonna say? ‘Oh, yeah, Timmy, well, I’m the Red fuckin’ Hood, what didja THINK the gun was for?’

And from the way that unrestrained relief washes over the kid’s face, he knows it was the right thing to say, the only thing to say. Jack and Janet Drake are going to face retribution, he’ll make sure of it, but it won’t be today. 

Tim sets the pillow on the couch, and the moment passes. 

He grunts, shoving his feet into boots. “Right then, Kiddo, I’ll be back in a bit. Where d’you keep your pictures? And your camera?” Things like clothes and a toothbrush (and expensive gold-encrusted heirlooms) aren’t all that difficult to find, but he’s pretty sure that Tim would squirrel away his camera and stalker photos, making sure Jack and Janet could never find them. 

“Uh, so the pictures are in a lockbox in the air vent in my closet and the camera is in my sock drawer.” His face is pink with a light blush, probably embarrassed to talk about his adorably freaky little hobby when clearly, it’s one of his best-kept secrets. And yeah, he’s right, Timbo’s got his hiding places. “Also, um, my room’s on the second floor, hallway to the right, third door down.”

Jason catalogues the information and bids Tim goodbye, leaving the kid to go raid his store of cleaning supplies as he shimmies down the fire escape to where his bike is still parked from last night, hidden behind several trash bags and under a tarp. 

It’s not too long a ride to Drake Manor, but he wants to make sure nobody can trace his route back to the safehouse, so he spends a good fifteen minutes weaving through the streets of East Burnley before he takes off in the direction of Bristol. 

It’s a familiar route, one he’d ridden hundreds of times as Robin. The Wayne Estate is just past the Drake one, only about an extra mile down the road, given that they’re neighbors. He’d never realized, when he was Robin, that the dark, empty mansion with no cars in the driveway had housed a small, lonely kid, one who’d been following him and Bruce around every night, tracking their every move. 

Maybe if he’d befriended his quiet, unnoticeable neighbor, things would be different now. Maybe Jack and Janet Drake would be rotting in Blackgate, maybe he never would’ve died, maybe Tim wouldn’t be sporting a purple-red handprint on the side of his face. But then again, maybe everything would be exactly the same. 

Predictably, Drake Manor is empty-looking, no cars parked anywhere, but he’s still careful, stashing his bike in a swath of bushes where nobody’s going to find it in the half-hour or so that he’s gonna spend inside. 

Jason makes quick work of their measly alarm system and follows Tim’s directions, stuffing anything valuable-looking into his pockets as he goes. The Drake residence isn’t a fucking home, it’s a mausoleum, freakishly clean and tidy, no sign of any life. 

None of the furniture looks even a little bit used, there isn’t a singular fingerprint on any wall or a speck of dirt on the gleaming marble floors. The whole house is cold and dead and pristine, no pictures lining the walls or shoes tucked in corners or clothes tossed haphazardly over chairs. There’s nothing at all. 

It makes him a little sick, really, this graveyard of a mansion. In Wayne Manor, there had always been noise. There had always been life. There were photos tacked to walls, notes stuck to the fridges, socks abandoned in the living room, and scuffs on the floors. There was always Jason or Dick or Babs or sometimes even Bruce himself careening through the halls, leaping from the chandelier, curling up in the library. There were books and drawings and half-eaten bags of chips, there was Alfred scolding someone in the background, there were stains on the couch and rips in the armchairs. 

There wasn’t the lingering scent of bleach, the displays of artifacts like it was a museum, the absolute and total silence, the absolute and total absence of life. If this was what Tim’s room looked like, Jason didn’t think he’d be able to keep himself from crying. 

He was almost scared to open the door and find a bedroom as expressionless as the rest of the Manor when he reached the third door down in the hallway. But Jason had shit to do, so he did, flinging the door open like ripping off a band-aid. 

And thank absolute CHRIST. 

Timmy’s room didn’t feel like the bedroom of a thirteen-year-old boy, but it also wasn’t anywhere as untouched as the rest of the goddamn house. 

There was a poster of the periodic table tacked to the wall, an empty coffee mug on the desk next to the computer monitor, a shelf of well-loved books with creased spines. The bed was made, but mussed, the plain comforter not pulled totally taut. It was a fucking relief, that was for sure. 

Jason fished a duffle bag out from under the bed and went to find clothes. Predictably, Timmy’s closet was a massive walk-in about as big as his old bedroom, back before Bruce and Robin and…everything. But it was also filled exclusively with perfectly pressed pants and stiff-looking polos and suits. 

When the kid had shown up at his safehouse that first night, he’d been wearing faded jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt, so clearly, all this crap was NOT his preferred wardrobe. Jason found a cache of normal-people clothes stuffed in a well-hidden nook after a few brief seconds of searching and filled the duffle with about half of them, grabbing some socks and boxers as well. 

He also found the camera, which wasn’t a polaroid or a digital or anything, but instead one of those older ones, where you had to actually develop the negatives. He didn’t know why the hell the kid would want it, since he didn’t exactly have a darkroom in his apartment, but whatever. Comfort items, and such. 

The locked fireproof box of photographs took a few extra minutes to retrieve, given that he had to find a screwdriver to remove the air vent. And boy, was Jason ever so tempted to jimmy open the lock and take a peek at them all, but it felt too private, too invasive. Kinda like reading a diary or something. So he managed to avoid temptation and stuff the box into the bag without looking. 

Jason had just grabbed his toothbrush and a few last-minute valuables when a muffled thump echoed from Timmy’s room. He froze, shouldering the bag and whipping out his gun, barely even breathing. 

For a few seconds, there were just light footsteps, until something thudded and there was an annoyed sounding, but nonetheless awfully familiar, huff. Jason rounded the corner and stepped back into the main bedroom, disbelieving. 

“Demon Brat? What the ever-loving FUCK are YOU doing here?”

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	12. Chapter 12 (Tim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! I am so so sorry that this is late! School has just started for me and boy is it taking ALL my time :(
> 
> I had some editing left to do that I just couldn't get to until today, so I'm sorry about the delay. Enjoy this one!
> 
> Also, I feel like I should mention that there's a fairly detailed description of a panic attack in this chapter. It's the same one from the last chapter, only this time you get Tim's string of thoughts, and it's very similar to the string of thought that runs through my head when I personally have panic or (to a lesser extent) anxiety attacks. If this is something that's going to be harmful to your mental health, just be careful!

Tim loved the Red Hood’s motorcycle with his whole heart. 

Yeah, one day in the distant future he was going to be learning how to ride one of these, because it was absolutely AWESOME. At first, Tim’d been totally freaked out, wanting to grip the Red Hood as hard as he possibly could but also, that much contact would make his skin prickle and itch, so he’d squeezed his eyes shut behind the motorcycle helmet and waited for it to be over. 

At some point during the drive though, he’d become aware of the air rushing past him like the sea parting around a ship, and he’d barely slitted his eyes open, just out of curiosity. And holy crap, it was amazing. 

The Gotham buildings flashed past them, lights blurring into little streaks of color, and the air they were tearing through became a lot less scary and a lot more exhilarating. He could feel his mouth stretching wide into a massive grin that made his cheeks ache, but there was no way for him to struggle it down. And no reason to either-nobody could see his embarrassingly large smile behind the dark panels of the helmet. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t block the happy little noises that escaped him every time the bike sped up, or the turn they took made his stomach detach from his body and sizzle with glee. Tim let his arms loosen around Jason, he let the wind billow across his stomach and let his oversized shirt flare and flap. 

They were, of course, travelling to the Red Hood’s safehouse on Cameron Street, an apartment on the fifth floor of a cheap complex, and Tim tried to ignore the swell of disappointment that welled in his gut as the building approached. It did nothing to dampen the beaming grin locked into place on his face, to his chagrin. 

He was reluctant to slide off the back of the motorcycle, pulling off the much-too-large helmet and resolving to just ignore the involuntary smile and hope that the Red Hood just…didn’t look at his face. 

He wasn’t sure if it was a bad or a good thing that he had no clue what expression the vigilante was making under his helmet. It did keep the blush at bay, though, so that was a win. He handed back the motorcycle helmet to the Red Hood, who stuffed it in a saddle bag. 

The Red Hood took off his helmet and stuck it under his arm, grinning at Tim with an easygoing smile, so opposite to the pictures always printed in the news. He tossed a tarp over the bike and flicked his chin towards the apartment building next to them, mouth still twitched upwards.

“C’mon, Timmy, new safehouse to show ya.” Right, right, Tim knew about this safehouse, of course, but…

“Um, are you just gonna…take the elevator?” The Red Hood snorted, looking amused, before he reached over and ruffled his hair. Tim didn’t even care that it was now mussed beyond recognition, it felt so nice. He tried to stop himself from leaning into the gentle touch. 

“Nah, Kiddo, I’m taking the fire escapes up. Why don’t you go take the elevator, though, and meet me on-” 

“Floor five, room two, I know.” He cut in before he realized he HAD cut in, scalp still tingling where Jason had messed his hair. He really couldn’t even bring himself to think enough to actually CARE, brain still totally fried. In the past few days he’s had more, like, NICE contact with NICE people than he’s had his entire LIFE. 

But the Red Hood was talking again, so Tim forced his brain to actually process data, catching the end of whatever sentence he’d started. “…I’ll open the door for you, yeah?” Yes. Okay, yeah, right. He would take the elevator upstairs and meet the Red Hood at his safehouse. Right. Tim nodded, since he was fairly sure if he opened his mouth, all that would come out was gibberish. 

Yeah, okay. Time to move since Jason was staring at him now. “Y-yeah.” He managed to stutter out before spinning and marching towards the end of the alley. Everything felt kinda mechanical, all autopilot-like, but his brain was a little busy processing…everything?

The entrance to the complex was just around the corner, and when he looked back, the Red Hood was already gone, vanished up the fire escape. Tim knew all of the Bats’ safehouses that he’d managed to locate like the back of his hand, having studied them the second he figured out where they were, so he let his legs do the moving and his brain do the thinking. 

There were several pressing problems for Tim Drake right now, in no particular order. 

Number one was Barbara Gordon. Babs was gonna be so mad at him. Well, okay, maybe the kind of mad that ACTUALLY meant concern, but sue him, it wasn’t as if Jack and Janet were ever THAT kind of mad, so it wasn’t like he’d be able to tell the difference all that easily. 

He’d marched right out on Babs with practically no explanation, given that his thoughts had been occupied by the fact that Dr. Isley was in danger of being shipped to Arkham. Some people had, like, tact and emotions and such down pat, and could navigate them at the same time that they were thinking about something totally different, but Tim was not one of those people. 

The second he showed up at the library again, she’d be on him like a bloodhound, demanding details and an explanation, and what was he supposed to tell her? ‘Oh yeah, Dr. Isley and I are friends and she gives me fruit and also her friend Ms. Kyle’s offered to train me as her sidekick and ALSO her girlfriend, Dr. Quinzel, taught me how to cheat at poker and also I met them all because I stalk Batman and Nightwing almost every night!’ How would THAT go over?

Barbara was Dick Grayson’s ex-girlfriend/current friend, the minute any of that reached her ears she’d hand him right over to Batman and Nightwing out of concern, and he’d lose the only thing he really cared about all that much anymore. 

But it wasn’t like he could just avoid her forever, either, so, dilemma. 

Problem number two was that of Batman and Nightwing. They were literally neighbors, and being the world’s greatest detectives, they almost definitely knew who he was. Also, Jason had called his name out, so…

And Batman and NIghtwing were gonna either go to his parents and tell them that theirson was pal-ing around with Poison Ivy and also the Red Hood, or they were gonna come looking for him, possibly kidnap him, and maybe wipe his memory or lock him up or demand secrets about his friends who were also kind of supervillains. Neither of those were ideal options. 

If Batman and Nightwing were looking for him, they were gonna find him at some point. And yeah, maybe he was…spending the night? With the Red Hood? Or maybe just having dinner or something, and Batman and Nightwing would leave the Red Hood alone in his own safehouses, but the minute he stepped out it was over. 

Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he would even survive if he went back to his parents. 

Problem number three was he was currently in an elevator travelling to ANOTHER of the Red Hood’s safehouses. Was he gonna be interrogated, or fed dinner again, or…Tim really didn’t know what was going on, which he didn’t like in the slightest. Problem number three was more of a situation than a problem, but Tim liked lists and you couldn’t have a very good list with only two items. 

(His parents were more of a standing issue at this point, so they did NOT make the list.)

He realized with a start that he was now standing face-to-face with the Red Hood’s door, and might have been for a little while, just lost in thought. Well, time for problem(/situation) number three to be addressed. 

He reached a hesitant fist to the door and knocked lightly. 

The Red Hood swung open the door, helmet on a countertop behind him. “Heya Timbo,” He started with an easygoing smile. Well, okay, he didn’t sound concerned or disappointed or angry or anything, so problem number three was shrinking from the list. “Wanna come inside?” 

The Red Hood took a step to the side, so Tim shuffled into the apartment. It was nicer than the last safehouse, with a bigger kitchen and living room. Before he could stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, the Red Hood ushered him towards the squishy-looking, well-used couch. Tim LOVED well-used couches, ones that weren’t bright white and stiff and off-limits. 

Jason flopped down on one end of the couch and gestured at the other end as he sprawled backwards like a spreading ink stain. Tim sat much more properly, but this time he didn’t worry so much about creasing the fabric, since it was already creased. 

“Soooo…you and Ivy are buddies, huh?” the Red Hood started with a side wards glance. Tim flinched back against the arm of the couch. Crap, was he upset about it? What did he want to know? What was important about that? 

Logically, Tim knew that anyone would want to know how he knew Dr. Isley, especially one of the vigilantes who fought her periodically, but he still kinda wanted to throw up. It didn’t make sense in his head, the way he felt, the way his palms wanted to sweat every single time anyone confronted him about anything, but it still happened. 

But the Red Hood was still sitting back casually, nonthreateningly, and it didn’t sound…loaded. It didn’t sound like the questions his mom or dad asked him-‘So you had some trouble in English class, Timothy?’ the time he got a B for the quarter, or ‘So you’ve made some friends, Timothy?’ when he’d played in the park with someone his parents deemed ‘undesirable,' back before he could even define the word. 

It didn’t sound like that, it didn’t sound venomous or dangerous, it just sounded curious, normal. Safe. 

“She…um, me and Dr. Isley…we’re uh, I think…I think we’re friends?” Tim stuttered, but despite the choppiness of his sentence, he was quite proud of himself for being able to say anything at all. The Red Hood nodded casually. 

Tim was still having trouble reconciling the Red Hood, Jason Todd, Robin, and the person he was sitting on a squishy couch with. The Red Hood was violent, scary, a demander of respect, someone who dealt with problems any way necessary. Jason Todd was the child of Bruce Wayne, airhead billionaire, who was loud and abrasive and wore ripped jeans to fancy galas. Robin was…his hero. A symbol of hope for Gotham, funny and kind and Batman’s anchor, a light. 

The person who fed him spaghetti and soup and let him sit on his couches however he pleased was somehow all three. 

Jason interrupted his train of thought, trying to get him to elaborate. “Right, how’d you meet then?” 

He shuffled his feet on the carpet and looked down at them, trying to get his brain to spit out words. "I, uh, I was taking pictures. Of a fight. Like, between her and Batman. Her uh…” Tim wasn’t all that clear, actually, on how Dr. Isley spoke to the plants, or controlled them, or any of that, really. “Her…connection to plants? Or something? It told her I was hiding in a tree watching them. She, um…”

His cheeks flared at the memory of Dr. Isley putting her hands on her hips and looking up at him with a stern expression on her face. “She offered me an apple and asked what I was doing.” More quietly, he added, “I’d never been caught before.”

The Red Hood snorted, amusement creasing his face around his domino mask. 

“So, what, you guys just…” Jason trailed off and waved a hand around airily, before shooting Tim a pointed look. Oh, right, okay. It’s another question.

“I dunno, really, we just kinda…talked. I didn’t realize…um, Dr. Isley is a very nice person, and…y’know, she and Dr. Quinzel and Ms. Kyle are always so nice to me? I dunno, Dr. Isley always gave me fruit and we always talked in the Park after she would fight Batman or something would happen with…” His throat was getting dry, talking about all of this, all the Rogues, thinking about the Joker, which is kinda sensitive all around.

If his parents knew that he didn’t just know, but actively talked to, the Gotham City Sirens, they’d lock him in a broom closet and let him starve to death. He can practically feel his father’s belt, ripping into his skin, or his mother’s sharp nails digging bloody crescent moons into his arm as she drags him to his room. 

But, his parents-Jack and Janet-they aren’t here. Jason Todd is. Jason Todd/Robin/Red Hood is here instead, not towering over him with angry eyes, but flopped on a couch with an air of vague interest. So Tim rubs his hands together, swallows, and keeps going. 

“It’s just…the…y’know, the Joker…he’s…he’s pretty awful to her.” He couldn’t help but choke over the Joker’s name. Not only was he pure evil to Drs Quinzel and Isley, he’d killed Jason. Tim didn’t know the details, didn’t really know what had happened, but he knew that much. 

He tries to justify running to the fight now, though, because that’s what the Red Hood’s really looking for here and he knows it. “Because she’s like…she and Dr. Quinzel are dating? So when…when the fight started, I was just so worried that Batman was gonna stick her back in Arkham.” He doesn’t say he’s scared of her being stuck in Arkham because the Joker’s also there, but it’s implied quite clearly, and the Red Hood is some kind of detective, so he really doesn’t need to actually say it. 

Jason shook his head slowly, looking a little bit…shocked, maybe? “You’re really somethin’ else, you know that Timbo?” 

What? Crap, he has no clue what that means at all. No clue! Is that good or bad or…what? What! “I just…she’s my friend, ya know? And Dr. Isley doesn’t…she doesn’t want to hurt people. She doesn’t like it. But sometimes…sometimes when there’s an issue you just need to FIX it, and nobody ever cares enough to fix the issues she finds, and doing it, like, legally…It doesn’t always work very well.” He babbles, ending with an awkward shrug once he realizes he’s babbling.

Crap, he really WAS babbling. It’s kind of a miracle that his palms aren’t sweating an entire great lake right now because he wants to melt into a puddle of Tim Soup right now. Did he always have to spill out a bunch of words every time he got uncomfortable? 

It maybe seemed like he was in the all clear though, because Jason was smiling at him, kinda, with this tiny, distant little grin. And it really wasn’t like he thought he’d get mad at him, start screaming and hitting and pursing his lips every time he looked his way, like he’d just sucked a lemon, because this was the Red Hood, who ruffled his hair and fed him and let him sleep on his couch and called him Timmy, but still. But still. 

Jason nodded, finally, saying “Yeah, Kid, I know.” Before he cleared his throat and sat up a little bit straighter on the couch, face solidifying into something more serious. 

Tim felt a pit open in his stomach. Crap. 

No. 

Nononono, this wasn’t very good. Why did he look like that now? Were they going to have an ‘important discussion,’ one that ended in shaking hands and coldness and him being shipped back to his parents, or stuck back out on the street, or handed over to the Bats?

“So, uh, look, Timbers. I, uh , I don’t really want you stuck on the streets while all of this is going down, Kid.” He said all seriously, and God, Tim’s heart was stuttering. He needed to go, he needed to leave and not be here, he could not go back to Jack and Janet he could NOT-

“Nononono, NO, no, I CANNOT go back there! I CAN’T go home!” Every part of him was trembling, shaking, and he couldn’t get it to STOP he couldn’t just be STILL, he couldn’t breathe, he COULDN’T BREATHE-

Jason’s mouth started to move but Tim wouldn’t hear ANYTHING, he couldn’t hear anything but static in his ears, static filling his brain, cotton filling his mouth. Tim was drowning, sinking, trapped in waves upon waves of panic, panic, panicpanicpanic, his mouth was moving now, saying, “No, you don’t understand, they’ll KILL me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t go back!” 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he wanted to say. I’m sorry I ate your food and took your couch, I’m sorry I’m creasing THIS couch, I’m sorry I interrupted the fight with Dr. Isley, I’m sorry I’m freaking out like a FREAK, a FREAK, a disappointment, a FREAK who couldn’t keep his hands still, who couldn’t talk well, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--

God, why weren’t his lungs WORKING, why could they not just EXPAND, why couldn’t he breathe, why-

There was something touching him, holding his shoulders, he wanted to flinch but he didn’t, he didn’t because they were hands, they were Jason Todd’s hands, they were gentle and soft and just sitting there, curled around his shoulders, and he forced himself to see, he forced his ears to listen, because Jason’s mouth was moving now. 

“-NO. I would never ask you to go back to your house, Kiddo.” He was saying, voice soft and low and so UNLIKE Jack and Janet’s. “NEVER. Hey, hey, Timmy, Timbers, look at me?”

He couldn’t, he couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t risk seeing anger, hate, disappointment. But there was a hand on his face now, cupping his cheek, warm and, God, it was so freaking tender he wanted to cry. Tim let the hand turn his head, let himself look Jason in the face. Jason, who just looked kind. “Timmy, look at me. You,” His thumb brushed along his face and he almost let a tear slip down. “Are NEVER going back there. Jack and Janet Drake are never EVER going to lay a hand on you again, do you understand?”

No, he didn’t understand. How could he? If Jason didn’t want to send him back to his parents or call the Bats to do it for him, what was…what was…going on? He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, couldn’t even open his mouth to try. 

“Timbo, Kiddo, I need you to understand. They’re never touching you again, Bud. Okay?”

He nodded despite the effort it took, even though he really didn’t know what was happening. But the Red Hood sounded so sincere, so convinced that he would never have to stay with his parents again, so he nodded. The thumb brushed under his eye again and he couldn’t stop the contented sigh he let out. He also really couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed about it either, not after today. 

“’M sorry,” Tim started, voice thick and unsteady. “I just…didn’t think…” 

Jason shook his head, thumb still brushing under his eye. “Hey, no, Timbers. No apologies, ‘s okay. But I’m not leaving you to take your little naps behind your dumpster, okay?” 

Well then what? What was he gonna do? Go to Bruce Wayne’s house, right next to his parents’? 

Tim he shook his head, and to his displeasure, the Red Hood pulled his hands back and put them in his lap. His skin was tingling, warm, where he’d held his face. “I can’t go anywhere, they’ll just call the cops, and the cops will take me back to my parents.” He tried to say, tried to tell him, I don’t have any family that likes me, I don’t have anybody who cares, I don’t have anywhere to GO.

But now the Red Hood was smiling knowingly. “Well I know one place where nobody’s gonna find you. Right here.” 

“I-what?” That…did not compute. That made no sense at all, ZERO sense. He’d figured there’d be a small chance that maybe he got the couch again, before the Red Hood dropped him off somewhere, or made him call someone. This though? This was…this was…what?!

The Red Hood was leaning forwards now, actually sitting instead of sprawling, spreading his fingers on his knees, sounding earnest. “Look Timbo, this couch is a pull-out and I make some mean pancakes. I’m not gonna let you go back to sleep on the asphalt where anyone could find you, especially now that Nightwing and Batman are probably all up in arms searching for you.”

Tim didn’t…he just did not understand. What…why?

Why would the Red Hood offer him even more food, even more housing, protection? Why? Tim had already dropped off the evidence, gotten dinner in return. Told him about his parents, gotten dinner and the couch for a night. So what was the…what was the motive here?

Why?

His parents had drilled it into his head since before he could even TALK-people do not do things for you unless they are creating or fulfilling a debt. That did not exclude Jack and Janet, so how could it possibly exclude Jason Todd, someone he’d only met a few days ago?

“I…but…but I don’t…Hood, I don’t have any money, I can’t pay you for that.” Tim stammered. He wanted to, he really, really wanted to stay here, because this couch was crease-able and because he’d never had so many meals made for him in a row, and because the Red Hood was just so freaking KIND all the time, but how could he?

But Jason’s brow scrunched like TIM was the one who’d said something confusing. “Timbo, the hell? All that evidence you brought me, you could probably convince me to sign over one of my fuuuuuu…freaking apartments to you, Kid!”

His eyes were widening, and he didn’t get it. He’d…he’d brought the evidence against his parents, yes, but…it had kinda felt like he was asking the Red Hood for a favor, no matter how much it would benefit Gotham. It…but…but Jason Todd was saying he could have the couch, have pancakes. He could stay HERE, here until his parents were done, until the Angel Juice debacle was over. . 

“Are,” His voice cracked. “Are you sure?” 

The Red Hood grinned at him, looking genuine. “Course, Timmy. Couch is yours. Now,” he stood from the couch, stretching. “How about some chili?” 

Half an hour later, Tim was still trying to finish his first bowl of chili, where the Red Hood had eaten like three now. It was delicious, like really, really good chili, but his stomach was still turning from his earlier freak-out. And plus, he barely ever ate this many actual meals in a row. Spaghetti, then the chicken lemon soup, and now chili. Sometimes, on her cleaning day, Mrs. Mac would leave him leftovers, or on special occasions that his parents would miss, like his birthday, cook him something, but after that it was right back to mac n’ cheese, instant ramen, and spaghettios. 

“So Timmy,” Jason started saying, and Tim jerked to attention. “Is there anything you need from your house besides, like, clothes? Because tomorrow I’m gonna break in and steal you some of those.” 

He flinched, dropping his spoon. What?! Where had that even COME from? How’d he said it so…casually? “You-what? You can’t just…what if they…” Tim stuttered out, at a loss for words. 

The Red Hood looked unbothered though, chucking and stretching like he was talking about picking up groceries or turning in homework. “Timbo, I’m the Red Hood. Like, I’ve literally broken into places so top-secret that the CIA has no idea they even exist. The mansion of some miserable rich drug lords? Cakewalk.”

Tim tugged at the hair at the back of his neck nervously, looking back into his uneaten food. What did he really need from that house, besides a toothbrush and some clothes? Was there really anything he cared about all that much? “Uh, my camera would be nice. My pictures, too? If it’s no trouble?” As an afterthought, he added, “Um, you can leave my computer and stuff, everything’s like, 100% clean.” 

The Red Hood nodded. “Sure thing, Timbo. Pictures?” 

Ah, crap. His cheeks flamed, because God, his most embarrassing and most important secret.

“Just…you know…the uh,” He tugged at his hair, unable to actually look the old Robin in the eyes. “The Batman ones?” The stalker photos, his creepy Batman obsession photos because he was a freak.

He thanked his lucky stars that Jason just grunted and started to clean up. “Timbo, you better finish that bowl, Kid, but if you aren’t gonna have a second serving, I’m gonna stick this in the fridge.” 

Tim focused on eating the rest of his chili, swallowing it in small bites that didn’t affect his twisting stomach. It WAS really good chili, easily the best he’d ever eaten, he was just still sweating from the couch.

He watched the Red Hood put the rest of the food away as he finished, scraping the sides of the bowl. Eventually he finished and moved to go and wash it, as he was used to, but Jason snatched it from his hands before he was even next to the sink. 

“Hey, er, wait! Uh…I can…I can do that.” Jason ignored him, scrubbing the dishes with a sponge. “No, Hood, wait, you’re the one who made dinner! I have to…I have to, like, repay you! For the pullout too!” His hands twitched helplessly beside him until Jason finally turned back around, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

“How about we set up the pullout, yeah?” He suggests. “Slap some sheets on it, find a blanket?” Tim nods, eager to finally be of some use, even if the thing they’re doing is for him. He needs to be helpful if he’s gonna stay here. 

Jason’s locating blankets and sheets while Tim pulls the couch cushions off, stacking them neatly out of the way. They pull the bed out together, and he groans internally. He’s gonna have to put the fitted sheet on. 

He SUCKS at putting on fitted sheets. 

Like, he really, really sucks at it. The corners always pop off, or the sides crinkle under each other, or he gets the direction wrong. He can never reach the ends, either. 

Jason’s standing there watching him struggle and telling him to stop apologizing for dumb mistakes when he doesn’t need to, and after the corner pops off AGAIN, he smashing his face into his hands to avoid the embarrassment. 

“It’s beaten me.” He laments as the Red Hood laughs at his trouble. 

“You’re too small for this, Kiddo.” He says as he helps fix the sheet before the rest of it comes off and crumples to the center of the bed. Tim manages to muffle his glare, but not quite all the way, and the Red Hood smirks at him, amused.

Once they’ve put the rest of the bed together, Jason brushes his hands together, looking satisfied. “Okay, so tomorrow, we can just fold it back up, sheets and all, no problem.” 

“Thank you.” Tim says to Jason, trying to transmit that he isn’t just thankful for the bed. It’s the food and the hand cupping his face and the motorcycle ride and just…it’s everything, really. 

“Yeah Kiddo. It’s no big deal.” 

The Red Hood looks at him for a minute, but clears his throat and pats the bed, looking a little bit awkward, somehow. It’s weird to see, on someone like the Red Hood. “Right then, Timbo, it’s past your bedtime and I’m tired. Big day of raiding your mansion tomorrow, so you’d better get some sleep.”

He forces himself not to roll his eyes, because seriously, he hadn’t been going to bed before two in the morning for literal years in order to stalk the Bats and the Red Hood, but ok, yeah, he’s a little tired. It’s been a long, taxing day, and he’s full of warm chili and trying not to yawn too loudly, and his bones still ache a little bit. 

So instead of rolling his eyes and being spiteful, he nods and sits on the bed, tucking his bare feet up onto it. He’s gonna really need a shower tonight, like seriously. But he’s tired and not THAT gross and he really doesn’t wanna annoy the Red Hood and borrow even MORE of his clothes, that’d just annoy him. 

Tim tucks himself under the blanket and the sheet, pulls them tight around him, eyes already dropping clothes. “G’night, Hood.” He mumbles before he drops off, and it sounds like ‘Thank you.”

“Night, Timmy.” Says Jason, but he’s pretty much already asleep, feeling warm and happy and God, so safe. 

When Tim wakes up the next morning, it’s to the sound of something clunking against something else, and oh thank God, he thinks, ‘this wasn’t a dream.’ He rolls towards the sound, springs squeaking under him, and oh yeah, the Red-freaking-Hood’s pullout couch. Which he is sleeping on. 

Light’s coming from somewhere and oh boy is it way too bright, and something’s making noise, and his brain is not working fast enough to process anything at all. “Up and at ‘em, Timbers! I made breakfast!”

Oh, a disembodied voice. Someone’s talking…someone…’s not his dad or mom, ‘s familiar…it’s the Red Hood. Yeah, that’s it, that’s the one. Slowly, he manages to pull one of his arms free from the blankets he’s wrapped in, and he starts to unwind the knot of sheets keeping his legs pinned.

“Wha…?” Tim mumbles, rubbing at his eyes so maybe the swirling colors and bright lights will go away. It doesn’t work, but they sharpen a little bit, which is nice. “What time is it?” he asks, not entirely sure if all of the words made it from his brain to his mouth. 

“Nine-thirty, Kiddo.” Oh, okay. “Come eat breakfast.” He’s managed to free himself from the tangled blanket and sheet, so he slides off the bed, knees a little wobbly, and shuffles towards the kitchen, where the slightly-blurry Jason Todd is standing, looking like he’s seen something funny.

There are two plates on the counter, both with forks and cups in front of them, and oh! These are omelets! He sits in front of the smaller one, a little confused, because he’s like, 95% sure this omelet is for him, but also…he should check. What if it…isn’t?

“What’s…is this…” He looks up at the Red Hood, who’s still standing by the stove. “Is this for me?” 

He’s pretty sure the Red Hood laughs, but then he says, “Yeah Kiddo, it’s all yours. Eat up.” 

Jason sits in front of the other omelet and immediately starts chowing down on it, and Tim watches for a moment, just in case he changes his mind or…something? But he doesn’t just keeps eating, so Tim picks up his own fork and cuts into the steaming hot omelet.

It’s so good. At this point he needs to stop expecting anything short of culinary masterpieces from the Red Hood, but the omelet is amazing, with ham and cheese and onion and…he takes another bite, way bigger this time. 

“You like omelets, Timbo?” Jason asks, mouth full, and Tim nods, letting his hair flop around in front of his face. He swallows his bite of food, and says,

“I tried to make myself an omelet once, but I caught the stove on fire, so I only ever have cereal and coffee for breakfast now.” before cutting himself another bite. Mrs. Mac had been soooo mad at him for that incident when she’d come to clean and found pieces of egg on the ceiling that he’d missed. His old live-in nanny from when he was super young, before he’d gotten just a day nanny, she had made him omelets for breakfast sometimes. And sometimes he went to breakfast when home alone, and he could certainly say that this was the best omelet he’d ever eaten.

“All that coffee must be why you’re so short.” The Red Hood teases, and Tim aims a monster glare at him before realizing what he’s doing. 

His eyes go wide in horror, waiting for the eviction order, the anger, the…the…

“I…didn’t mean to make…that face. I…” Tim’s really trying to generate a coherent apology, but his brain isn’t all the way on yet, and it’s completely caffeine-less, but the Red Hood just snorts, still sitting and eating all relaxed, not angry. 

“Christ, Kid, maybe we SHOULD get some coffee into you after all.” 

Before he can start blathering and babbling, Tim stuffs more food into his mouth, this time a little more restrained. After his improper glare, he really can’t have Jason thinking he’s a total pig. 

He avoids any more conversation after that, just stuffing food into his mouth until his stomach feels tight. He tries to finish the whole plate, but by the end, he’s picking, stalling, so the Red Hood clears his throat. “Right then, Timbers, when are your parents gonna be absent from the house, huh? Can’t have them calling the cops on me.” 

Right. His parents. Jack and Janet, his dad and mom, who’ve never loved him, who were gonna let them test Angel juice on him, who are supposed to just…love him unconditionally, according to Jason. He flinches a little bit, embarrassed, because what must the Red Hood think of him? Such a terrible son that his own mom and dad don’t love him?

“Uh…they’re always at work when they’re home from ten to four…uh, at least. So…” Tim stares at the counter absently, thinking about his parents’ schedules. Sometimes they leave earlier, around eight or nine, and they usually stay way later, but they’ve never been home in the six hours between ten and four, so it’s safe. 

(The Bats’ schedules aren’t the only ones he tracks.)

Jason grunts and moves his plate away, looking uncomfortable. “Sounds good to me. Uh, I’ll be gone for probably like, an hour and a half, yeah?” 

Um…okay? Is he…is he going with him? Or being babysat by one of his friends or…what’s…there’s no way he’d leave Tim alone unsupervised in his safehouse…is there? “You want me to…stay, like, to...to stay here?” 

That doesn’t make a lot of sense. Vigilantes are notoriously secretive about everything, going to extreme lengths to protect their identities, and Tim would know that better than anyone else, given that he’s been following them around for years now. The Red Hood leaving him alone in his safehouse, especially not even knowing that Tim knows who he is, it’s crazy. 

“Yeah, Kid, after that miracle-work you pulled in Robinson Park with Ivy, Nightwing and Batman are gonna be trying to track you down for a little interrogation. ‘S probably best if you hole up in here for a while.” 

That does make sense. Batman and Nightwing were definitely going to be searching the city for him, and, now that he thinks about it, the Red Hood had made it obvious that he knew him, so they were probably looking for him too. This way, he could play it off like he just recognized him from saving him on the street or something, and they would never, ever think that he would leave him in a safehouse unwatched. 

Right, past that, he needed to make himself useful, so Jason didn’t decide he was too much of a burden and have him sleep under the tarp in the alley with his motorcycle. “I…I can clean?” Tim can feel his hands twitching a little in his lap, not sweating or shaking quite yet, but they’re gonna, if he can’t do anything to make himself be helpful. 

And looking at the Red Hood’s face, it looks like he’s maybe going to say no. And what would Tim do with that then? And he LIKES to clean, he WANTS to clean, he wants the bleached floors and sparkling marble of Drake manor, he wants the constant scent of Lysol, he wants to scrub his skin raw and red, and he’s about to start babbling when Jason just chuckles. 

“Only if you really want to, Timbo. I’ve got spray and Lysol wipes under the sink in the bathroom.” 

Oh thank God, oh thank God, ohthankGod. He knows he’s nodding like a broken bobblehead but he’s just so relieved, so looking forward to the scent of cleanliness, the museum-feel of relieving every surface of grime and gunk and all that’s gross. 

Before the Red Hood can was his dishes again, Tim snatches the stack of plates and forks and moves to scrub them at the sink. It’s quite nice, this time, actually, having more than one set of dishes to wash. There’s two plates, two forks, two cups, and they GO PLACES, they have places to go instead of just the counter, so he can use them again after every meal, go back to his empty seat at the empty table. 

The table isn’t empty anymore, the rooms aren’t dead and cold, the house isn’t an airtight vacuum. Because Jason Todd, his Robin, he’s here too, drying and shelving the scrubbed-clean dishes. And there’s books here, a couch you’re allowed to use, scuff marks under the counter, clothes tossed over the backs of chairs. 

Maybe this is what a home is supposed to feel like. 

Once the dishes are gone, the Red Hood goes to get ready, and Tim goes to fix the couch. He straightens and tucks the blankets, obsessively smoothing out every wrinkle even though it’s all about to get folded up. 

It’s kinda tough, folding up the couch, just since he’s a little short for it, but Tim’s able to manage with only mild difficulty. The Red Hood walks back out of his bedroom as he’s stuffing the pillows back into place, zippers at the bottom and creases pressed out as much as possible with his thumbs. 

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Jason moves around, stuffing thing into his let, but stops moving when he picks up a gun.

He forgot about this, of course he did, because he’s been so busy eating food and sleeping on couches that he’s totally ignored the reason WHY. That gun is for his parents, he knows it. That gun is for Jack and Janet Drake, who are both probably going to be dead by the end of this. 

Jack and Janet Drake weren’t very good parents and he knows it, always has known it, but they…they were still HIS parents. And really, he could have had it a whole lot worse. They weren’t very kind when they WERE home, but that was rare anyways, and he’d always had most everything he needed. 

And it’s stupid to say anything at all, stupid to make himself seem weak like that, but he just can’t help it. His eyes flick up to the now-helmeted Red Hood and he asks, “Are you…if…if my parents are there, are you gonna…shoot them?” 

He feels so STUPID, so WEAK, standing there like he’s seven or something, still holding the couch pillow that he’d been about to stuff back into place. It’s so dumb of him, to just pretend Jack and Janet are going to just…disappear, just vanish, like they’re on another trip to Africa or Asia or South America, like they’re still just an unanswered phone-call away. 

Because they’re not, they’re probably going to die, shot, or they might end up in Blackgate for life with broken bones and a ruined empire, wishing they WERE dead. 

The Red Hood’s just standing there, staring at him in a conflicted way, one hand still on the butt of his gun, and GOD, is he really going to get all upset about this? Is he really…he cannot have another weird freak-out in front of Jason Todd, not another one, but the longer they’re just standing there, looking at each other…

But…but now the Red Hood’s shaking his head, tugging his mouth up into a small smile, and he’s just so embarrassed that he can actually feel himself deflating, feel all the…all the feelings just drain away.

“Nah, Timbo, it’s just a precaution. If anything happens I’ll just freak ‘em out a little, scare ‘em. That’s it.” 

Tim knows he looks relieved, but he can’t really care all that much about it. He doesn’t KNOW why he’s still…why he still cares about his parents this much, why he can’t just turn it off, but he does and he can’t. 

(Maybe he still believes he can get them to love him.)

But he sets the pillow on the couch, and the moment is gone.

Right then, Kiddo,” The Red Hood starts as he’s putting on his boots by the door. “I’ll be back in a bit. Where d’you keep your pictures? And your camera?” 

Right, right, those are hidden away as securely as possible, just in case someone deep-cleans his room and finds them somehow. How would he possibly explain THAT away?

“Uh, so the pictures are in a lockbox in the air vent in my closet and the camera is in my sock drawer. Also, um, my room’s on the second floor, hallway to the right, third door down.”

Drake Manor is massive, massive and dark and cold and clean but like a hospital, and nobody would possibly want to spend any more time than necessary inside, especially the Red Hood, who’s gonna be trying to find specific things. 

The Red Hood slips out the window with a “Seeya soon, Timmy!” and Tim immediately marches to the bathroom, fingers twitching with anticipation. 

Cleanliness has always been a comfort, he’s always hated grime and grunge and dirt and stains, blemishes. He likes having clean skin, clean hair, clean clothes, clean floors, clean clean clean clean clean. 

He likes pristine cabinets and countertops, store-display-like carpets, bleached tiles, unmarked walls. In his mind’s eye he pictures the endless expanse of shimmering marble that tiles his home, the oceanic ballroom of glittering, cold perfection, absolutely silent and absolutely empty, the dustless white couches and the tastefully folded throw blankets that only ever move when Mrs. Mac washes them.

It calms him, the familiarity of it, but it sure is lonely. Cleaning Jason’s safehouse is going to be different, not just calm but also comforting, a word he doesn’t associate with Drake Manor. 

He loses himself in the process of cleaning, in the scrubbing and washing and dusting and mopping, in the vacuuming he does when he finds a small DirtBuster in the laundry closet. He loses himself, loses track of time, barely notices when his hands start to crack and ache and sting. 

Doesn’t even notice when the two-hour mark is passed until the window slides back open and the Red Hood topples into the apartment, breaking the silence. 

Tim jumps and yelps, rag flying out of his hand and onto the floor, by the spot he’s been scrubbing. 

“Timmy,” Jason starts, chucking his helmet into his bedroom. “We may have a problem.”

  
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	13. Chapter 13 (Dick)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Again, I know I keep saying it, but every single comment and kudo and bookmark lights up my entire day, I swear it. I get so excited every time I see something new, I swear it. I never expected this story to ever reach even half of its current popularity, and thank you guys just so very much for all of the support! 
> 
> Also, I am not on tumblr, so if someone were to make art for this story, I would never see it probably, so if that ever happens (not that I'm like, reeeeeally expecting it to) somebody PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE drop me a link in the comments! I would love to see it! 
> 
> And I knowwwww I left you all on a cliffhanger, I AM SORRY! But I gotta catch everyone up to speed! The plot is about to thicken!!! 
> 
> Love u all, and enjoy :)

Dick had no idea what he was supposed to think about the fact that Timmy Drake, BARBARA’S Timmy Drake, was apparently all buddy-buddy with Poison Ivy, and maybe also with the Red Hood. 

They’d just let him go, BOTH OF THEM, Tim AND Jay, and Bruce was just standing there in the clearing looking all stoic and blank and Dick wanted to scream. 

Ivy’s crossing her arms, glaring at both of them, and it looks like now that Tim Drake, her apparent BFF is gone, she’s not feeling so thrilled about having the two of them there in her forest. Also…what the heck? How is Timmy even friends with Ivy? The Red Hood? 

WHAT IS GOING ON?! 

“Okay, Bats, just because Timmy’s set us a truce doesn’t mean we’re friends now. Out of my forest.” Ivy cuts in, and B gives her one of his signature Bat-Nods. Dick still wants to scream. 

Why would Bruce want the two of them to just walk away? WHY? 

Okay, so Ivy would have maybe stopped them from catching Tim, but why would they just let the Red Hood, who clearly knew him, run after him? 

But they needed to move this along, and hopefully get Ivy to give them a nice path out of here, so Dick speaks up. “Thanks, Ivy! If you need to get with us about a plant thing, uh, what’s the plan there?” Bruce was THE most uncommunicative human being on the planet, and of course he wouldn’t think about that at all. 

Ivy twirled her red hair around a finger, humming thoughtfully with her vines curling up her legs. After a few seconds she sighed and put her hand on her hips. “I’ll just tap into the green and get one of my plants to get your attention. You can meet me here in the Park, but don’t enter my forest.” 

“Understood.” Growled Bruce in his edgy Batman voice, doing a dramatic sweep towards the edge of the clearing. Dick followed him once Ivy parted the leaves in front of them and he grinned back at her. She huffed, annoyed. 

Once they were on the path, Bruce ground out “Nightwing,” still facing forward all solemn-like, like he was marching across a super dark, Gothic bridge instead of through a muddy jungle in Robinson Park. “Who was the child?”

Um, WHAT? Since when did HE know something that BRUCE didn’t? 

“You really didn’t recognize him? Timmy Drake? He’s literally our neighbor.” If Dick hadn’t known B for years now, there’s no way he’d be able to tell he was embarrassed, but it was one emotion that he’d always been able to pick out. His little sister, Cass, could read people like children’s picture books, and he’d never really been great at that particular skill, but he also just knew Bruce. 

And Batman was EM-BARR-ASSED. 

He made a grunt that meant, “Oh Dick my most favorite child, please do not make fun of me for this.” Paraphrased, of course. 

Dick was definitely NOT letting this opportunity pass. 

“Oh all bow to the World’s Greatest Detective, the brilliant Batman!” He crowed, bouncing down the path (only a little) smugly. Bruce refused to look at him, putting on the whole Batman-is-a-brick-wall act fairly convincingly.

B grunted AGAIN, this one meaning “Dick I just love you so much, also please do not make fun of me anymore because I am the night and the night can’t be embarrassed ever.” Dick ignored this grunt as well. 

“Gotham’s most ingenious vigilante, who couldn’t even recognize his own neighbor!”

“Nightwing, enough.” Great. Dick HATED the whole Stoic Batman act. Bruce had only adopted it after Jay had died, after he’d lost a Robin. But he kept going, saying, “We all know that Gotham’s most brilliant vigilante is Agent A.” 

Oh, this was even BETTER. 

One of the worst times of his life had been after Jason’d been murdered, once Bruce started spiraling and it fell upon his shoulders to keep Gotham (and Batman) intact, despite the fact that he’d been crushed, having lost a brother and then, started losing his dad. 

It had been forever, months past the time when Jay had come back as the Red Hood, angry and out for vengeance, that B had finally started joking around on patrol again, finally started acting like Bruce again, instead of just Batman. 

“Call Agent A, have him get O to the CT so she can run comms. And I have questions for her, about Timothy Drake.”

Ah, yeah, that. Dick winced a little, because he was gonna become the bridge between Babs, who was friends with Tim, and Bruce, who forgot that he was even their neighbor. Also, Bruce could probably tell at this point that he knew the kid, or at least knew what Babs had shown him. But Dick placed the call to Alfred, who was already on his way to pick up Babs anyways, because he knew all.

“Nightwing,” Started B, probably to start drilling him about Timmy Drake, and why the heck he was there, and also whether he was a supervillain-in-training or something, but okay, sue him, Dick just wanted to patrol at this point. Bludhaven had so much less drama than Gotham, but yeah, he missed his city, and right now he just wanted to go out and have a nice patrol next to his dad.

“B, look, can we talk about it later? It’s kinda complicated, and O just told me about it literally yesterday, and we still have patrol tonight. And no, I do NOT know how he knows Hood.” But oh boy did he WANT to know. 

HOW did a small, thirteen-year-old, library-bound rich kid know the Red Hood? How did that even HAPPEN? Babs hadn’t mentioned anything at all about Jason, or Jason-and-Tim, and that definitely seemed like something important enough to mention at some point. 

A few seconds later they emerge on the edge of Robinson Park and grapple away, Batman and Nightwing. In a few days his break is going to be over, and he’s going to have to go back to Bludhaven. He’s gonna have to leave Dami and Babs and Bruce and Jay and Alf, his family. 

Dick loves Bludhaven, loves being Nightwing, is so excited to be able to become a cop, but he misses his family. He misses his home. Misses patrol with Bruce and movie nights and Alfred’s cooking. Misses seeing Babs all the time, even misses his rooftop squabbles with his brother. 

So Dick enjoys this patrol, relishes in, it and pushes all thoughts of Timmy Drake and Poison Ivy and Jason to the back of his mind, at least for a few hours. 

Once they get back to the manor, Dick immediately declares that he’s taking a shower, before Bruce has a chance to demand they discuss anything while he’s still in his sweaty costume. He showers, changes into sweats and one of Wally’s old T-shirts, slips upstairs for a minute to check on a sleeping Damian.

Bruce’s rumble sounds, calling for him, just as he’s stepped out of the elevator and back into the Batcave. Dick moves towards the Batcomputer, where Babs’ face has already popped up on the screen, looking distinctly confused.

“Now,” Bruce starts, glancing between the two of them as Dick pulls up another chair and Babs tugs at her ponytail, “I think that we have some things to discuss.”

Dick sighs. “Jesus, B, do you REALLY have to sound so DRAMATIC about it?” Then he turns to Babs with a grin. “Bruce didn’t even RECOGNIZE his own NEIGHBOR, Babs, can you believe it? Truly the world’s-”

“Not NOW, Dick.” Bruce grunts out, all annoyed and the Batman-version of flustered. He and Babs share a smirk. 

Mood equals lightened, point one for Dick Grayson!

Babs pushes up her glasses on the screen and shakes her head. “Before you ask, Bruce, YES, I know Tim, NO I did not know he was…friends with Poison Ivy. NO I did not know he apparently knows the Red Hood.” Bruce, of course, grunts, because what else could he possibly do? COMMUNICATE or something!? What a radical idea!

“I second that!” He says, once it’s clear that B isn’t gonna actually say anything. “I know Tim because he’s our neighbor, and I also think that I now deserve the title of-” He’s interrupted by B’s long, Exhausted Dad sigh and Babs’ snickering through the screen. 

“Dick. Please.” Is all that Bruce says, and it sends Barbara cackling through the screen. 

“You really didn’t recognize your neighbor, Bruce?” She asks him once she’s done. 

“Barbara.” 

“Okay, okay, Bruce. We’re done.” She shoots him a look so Dick nods complacently. Done for NOW, at least. 

“Right, B, Babs came to me yesterday about Tim, who she like, mentors at the library or whatever, because-you know what, she should probably tell you about all this.” Babs sighs and tugs her ponytail again. She really SHOULD be the one to explain all this, though, since Tim’s HER friend. Dick has a few vague memories of shaking hands with a small, stiff kid at a few galas, but that’s about it. BABS is the one who’s been hanging out with him every day for four years. 

Bruce has cast his pointed gaze at Barbara now, and she starts, all clear and concise and amazing at being a vigilante. “Tim showed up at the library when he was nine, four years ago. Since then, I’ve been teaching him how to manage computer systems,” HACK computer systems, but it’s her go-to euphemism for it, “and a few other useful skills, like the math and science I’ve been learning in my classes. He’s a smart kid, smartest kid that I know, really, he’d make a fantastic Bat, but I’ve never told him anything and he’s never even brought it up.

“He’ll come to the library almost every day for a period of a couple of months, and then he’ll just stop coming, for weeks, only showing up once or twice every few days. When that happens, he’s quieter, fidgety, and,” Babs swallows and Dick winces. He knows what they’re about to have a conversation about. “And sometimes I’ll see a few bruises. I’ve never looked into it though, never even learned his last name, until,”

And because she’s an absolute GENIUS, the pictures of Tim from yesterday pop up on the screen. It’s a difficult thing, to get Bruce Wayne to flinch, but at this, he does. So does Dick. Jesus, no kid deserves that. The handprint on his young face seems to pop from the screen, almost, all purple and red and swollen-looking. 

“-Until yesterday when he showed up with this. I took pictures, I was gonna run a scan, but Dick recognized him as Tim Drake, your neighbor. TODAY, though, he came in again, and everything was pretty okay until I got a call from my dad, and I told him you two were fighting Ivy.”

Now, Dick perks up. This was the part that he didn’t know, that maybe Babs could shed some light on. Bruce, of course, was looking all blank, but his eyes were fixed on Tim Drake’s face on the screen. 

“So he just bolted once you said that?” Dick asks, prompting her to continue. It’s the Nightwing-style interrogation, no pressure, but insistent questions anyways. Her brow furrows and she shakes her head, tugging her ponytail. 

“No, he said that ‘Dr. Isley’ shouldn’t go back to Arkham, and said we should turn on the news, it wasn’t until you got caught by her vines, Bruce, that he just…started running. He didn’t even say anything, just stood up and sprinted away.” 

Bruce’s brow furrowed, and Dick could feel his brow doing the same thing, because what the heck? 

“Before you and the Red Hood arrived, Tim mentioned not wanting to send Poison Ivy back to Arkham ‘with the Joker.’ Does that mean anything to either of you?” Bruce glanced between Dick and Babs briefly, before his eyes returned to the bruise on Tim’s face, projected on the screen. 

What could THAT mean? Back to Arkham with the Joker…with the Joker…Ivy and the Joker…was he scheming something? Were they on bad terms? Wait, wait, they WERE! Or, they might be! “Harley and Ivy are a thing now, right Babs? And Joker’s Harley’s ex. Maybe he’s been trying to get back at Ivy or something for that?” 

Babs had probably reached the same conclusion that he did, probably before him, and she was nodding along, looking all thoughtful through the screen. Bruce grunted, of course. Typical. He’d said like, two entire sentences in a row, so clearly, he was done talking. Dick tried his best not to roll his eyes. 

Barbara groaned, and buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know, guys. I can see Tim being concerned about Poison Ivy being in danger in Arkham, thanks to the Joker, but I have no clue how he KNOWS her. And that’s not even TOUCHING on the Red Hood thing.”

That had Dick frowning a little bit. There was small-quiet-neighbor Timmy Drake, and there was Barbara’s supergenius library Tim, and there was the Tim that was friends with Poison Ivy and also maybe Harley Quinn, and apparently, there COULD be a Tim who was pals with the Red Hood. How all of it connected, Dick really didn’t have a clue. 

Dick,” Bruce said, snapping him out of his thoughts instantly. “Tomorrow night, you need to track down the Red Hood. We need to know how he knows Tim Drake, and whether or not he knows how Tim knows Poison Ivy.” He frowned. Jason wasn’t gonna be easy to track down, and he wasn’t going to be excessively keen on an interrogation. 

Babs was shaking her head too. “Tim isn’t a budding supervillain, Bruce, I know him. Also, he’s thirteen.” Oh, so a different reason for the head-shaking, but noteworthy nonetheless. 

“While in the clearing, Poison Ivy mentioned Catwoman to him, and he stated that he did not like stealing things and did not want her to train him. That’s not what I’m concerned about here.” 

CATWOMAN now too?! What Rogue did this kid NOT know? In fact, with Harley, Ivy, and Selina, Timmy was friends with all of the Gotham City Sirens. Plus Babs and possibly the Red Hood, he was well on his way to pocketing all of Gotham’s vigilantes. And the way that B was still boring holes into the computer screen, staring at his bruised face, Dick was pretty certain that Batman might be joining his little caravan sometime soon as well. 

But also… “Well then Bruce, would you like to share with the class? What ARE you concerned about then? What’s the grand plan, tell him to stop befriending Rogues and getting you to make truces with them?” 

Bruce looked over at him with a long-suffering sigh and Babs snorted through the computer. “No, Dick, the truces aren’t an issue. It’s the fact that this thirteen-year-old had bruises like this and hangs out with Rogues and was somehow at Robinson Park after dark, talking to Poison Ivy, and nobody was looking for him.”

Oh…yeah. Yeah, shit, yeah. Yeah, that was the bigger issue and now that Bruce said it like that…

“Bruce, the times he disappears from the library and only comes in with bruises and such, they’re the times his parents are home from their vacations. Their THREE-MONTH LONG vacations, Bruce. They just leave him at home, alone, for MONTHS.”

Babs is shaking her head forlornly, and Dick can feel his stomach dropping. 

The handprint on his face was bad enough, the wandering Gotham unsupervised at night was an issue, but…that? Dick hadn’t known that. He knew the Drakes were rarely home, but he’d always just…assumed they took their kid with them. He can’t even imagine being left alone for that long. He gets lonely after just a few DAYS without talking to some member of his family, be it a phone call with Bruce or FaceTiming Babs or getting lunch with Damian. 

Being separated from your parents for months though, as a thirteen-year-old? What would…how would he even survive that? Bruce looks like he’s choking, sitting in the computer chair beside him. 

“Barbara,” and his voice is so low and gravelly it’s deeper than Batman’s ever talked. “I am going to need you to send me the Drakes’ travel records.” She’s nodding, already tapping away on her end, and…what are they even supposed to DO?

“Bruce, hey, remember I told you how Jason blew up the Drake Industries building the other day, and said there was a drug lab? What if…”Ok yeah he didn’t really know what was going on there, but within the past few days Timmy Drake had shown up all across the board. 

He’s gone from being a forgettable gala guest to…something, that’s for sure. But his parents’ building/possible drug lab, his Poison Ivy friendship, his maybe-Red Hood friendship, the bruises at the library, everything? There’s no way it’s a coincidence at this point. 

Bruce, being the brilliant detective he is, is probably thinking the same thing. Babs too, of course, but that’s pretty much a given, since she’s most invested in the fledgling case.

Speaking of Bruce, he’s humming thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on the computer screen. “Dick, Barbara, we need to investigate the Drakes, including Tim. Tomorrow, Dick, I want you to go over there and find a way into the house, try and find Tim. Take Damian if you need an excuse.”

Yeah, that’s a good ploy, invite Tim over for a pool party, check out his bedroom,the rest of the house, maybe get a read on his parents, Janice and John, or something like that. 

“Barbara, I need a file put together, anything you can find regarding Drake Industries and Jack and Janet Drake. Tim too. This is officially an open case.” Jack and Janet, those were their names. And they’d managed to make Batman AND Bruce Wayne’s shit list, by the looks of it. 

And Nightwing’s, and Oracle’s, and they were most likely already ON Poison Ivy’s and the rest of the Sirens. 

Not long after, Babs signed off, the window with her face displayed on it closing, and Dick forced Bruce to go and take a shower and sleep, which he sometimes didn’t do, if Alfred was already in bed. 

Tomorrow, he would con Damian into being a part of their plot to solve the mystery of what was going on with Tim, Jack, and Janet Drake, but tonight? Jesus, tonight, Dick was gonna sleep til noon. 

…Okay, well not quite til noon, but it was still 11 when Dick rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed, to the sound of something shattering in the hallways.

“Damian!” That was Bruce’s roar, “What have I told you about using katanas in the house!” 

Well, that explained the crash. Time for damage control, he supposed. 

With a sigh, he tugged on some shirt off the floor and shuffled out into the hallway to face a fuming Bruce, still in his nightclothes, and a petulant-looking Damain, who was holding a katana with his arms crossed, surrounded by the shards of a Ming Dynasty vase. 

“Father, I was practicing my swordsmanship, something I could do MUCH more effectively if-”

“You are NOT becoming Robin at ten years old.” Bruce scrubbed a hand over his face, looking every bit the exhausted dad he was. 

“But GRAYSON did!” 

“We are not having this discussion again. Now clean this up and give me the katana.” Dick chose this moment to step into their line of sight, and Damian’s angry-scowl melted off of his face in exchange for his resting-scowl. 

“Mornin’ Dami, B. I thought you locked up all the katanas?” Bruce sighed long and hard, saying nothing, and Damian smirked smugly. 

“As the heir to the Batman mantle, I’ve been trained to disarm any security system that father may have put into place.” Ah, of course. Why WOULDN’T they expect a ten-year-old to be able to break in and out of the Batsafes? Bruce looked like he wanted to go to bed again, or at least go drown himself in coffee, so Dick took over for him. 

“Dami, if you go and put that sword away, I’ll let you help me with a mission.” His eyes widened almost comically, mouth dropping open, and Dick smiled internally. Damian was rarely allowed to help with any sort of Bat-related activity, and he always jumped at the chance to prove himself as a ‘worthy partner’ or whatever. 

Really, they all knew that Damian had the necessary technical skills to become Robin, but all of the emotional stuff? He had no clue. Damian couldn’t comfort a scared child or kindly help a cat out of a tree or calm down a hostage. He would use too much force, he wouldn’t stop himself, and he saw no issue with killing. 

Bruce told him that he was too young, which was no lie, but it was mainly because whenever he tried to tell Damian the other stuff, the boy wouldn’t hear it. 

“Grayson, I will accept your request for assistance.” Damian announced, pretending that he wasn’t absolutely spilling over with excitement before he spun around and marched towards the entrance to the Batcave. Dick could faintly hear him break into a sprint the moment he was out of eyesight.

Dick sighed and stretched, heading towards the kitchen. Back in Bludhaven, sugar cereals were pretty much all he had in his pantry, but here? He was pretty certain Alfred was making cinnamon French toast. Dick LOVED Alf’s cinnamon French toast, even more than he loved Fruity Pebbles. 

His nose was correct, and the second he entered the kitchen, Alfred already had a stack of toast on a plate, topped with syrup and whipped cream, sitting on the counter for him. “Good morning, Master Dick.” He hummed pleasantly. “If I do recall, this is one of your favorites.” God, he loved Alfred. 

“Thanks, Alf! I dunno what I’d do without you!” Dick stuffed a massive bite of French toast into his mouth, shoveling it in at rapid-fire pace. 

“Do remember to breathe, Master Dick.” He smiled sheepishly back at the butler around a mouthful of toast. 

“Sorry, Alfred.” Alf pursed his lips distastefully at him as he cut himself another heaping forkful. It was a few moments later, when he was scraping his last bites of cinnamonny deliciousness off the plate, that Damian came barreling into the kitchen, no katana in sight, although knives were a different story. He’d have to do a shakedown before they left. 

“Grayson, tell me about this mission.” He demanded, crossing his arms and making the same distasteful expression as Alfred as Dick stuffed his last bite into his mouth. 

“Don’t demand, Dames, you gotta ask nicely.” He let out a long sigh that sounded so similar to Bruce’s that it was uncanny, and rolled his eyes dramatically, something that honestly? He might have picked up from Jason, the few times they’d hung out together (with Dick there as well). 

“Grayson, may you PLEASE tell me about this mission?” Dami grumbled, making it very clear that he detested having to use MANNERS of all things. But it warmed Dick’s heart, to see that Damian was making some progress. When he’d first arrived, he would have probably demanded a fight to the death over his rights to not say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ 

Dick reached over and ruffled his hair, and Damian pretended it bothered him. “We’re investigating our neighbors, the Drakes. Babs is gonna run coms, and we’re gonna go pretend to ask Timmy, their son, over to hang out, and see if we can find anything.” 

Dami pursed his lips. “That does not sound like a mission, Grayson, and I do not NEED friends. I already ‘hang out’ with you and Cain.” Dick tried to suppress a smirk. 

“Uh huh, then what’s Jon?” he stuck his nose in the air primly. 

“An ally.” Sure, yeah, he believed that. Jon was one of the few people that Damian didn’t call by their last name, the others being ‘Barbara’ and ‘Father’ and ‘Mother.’ That was practically a declaration of undying loyalty, for Damian. 

“Naw, Dames, this really IS a mission. Jay says the Drakes had a drug lab, and Tim, their kid, he showed up and got Bruce to form a truce with Poison Ivy. We’re trying to figure out how it’s all connected.” The annoyed look disappeared from Damian’s face, replaced by one of incredulousness. 

“Father formed a TRUCE? With a ROGUE? That’s…that’s dishonorable! Father can easily defeat the plant witch!” Typical. THIS was an example of why B didn’t think Damian was ready for the mantle of Robin, beliefs like these. 

“Damian, no, truces are good, that way there’s less violence. Besides, before me and Jay showed up, B was kinda…tied up.” The look of horror that crossed his face was one that Dick wished he could photograph, because holy COW, Dami did NOT look happy. In fact, he looked so displeased, Dick was actually a little worried that his little brother was gonna march off to find and scold Bruce, who was probably off mourning the fact that he had so many children somewhere. 

Before Damian could ACTUALLY go and chew B out, Dick said, “We need someone close to Tim’s age to make this convincing. This is undercover training for you.” He still looked a little bit suspicious but nodded anyways. 

“That is acceptable. And you will report my involvement to Father?” 

“Sure, Kiddo. Wanna go call Babs at the library and hook up the comm lines?” Damian sniffed haughtily before turning wordlessly and strutting out of the kitchen towards the grandfather clock that was the entrance to the cave. 

Dick stuck his plate in the sink and followed with a “Thanks for breakfast, Alf!” 

By the time Dick made it to the cave, Damian had already called Babs, who’s face was pulled up on the Batcomputer, rows of books visible behind her. 

“Hey, Babs!” He called as he pulled two mics out of a cabinet. They were tiny, only for undercover work, and where Babs COULD talk through them if needed, she rarely ever did, because anyone could hear it. It was mainly just so she could listen in and sound an emergency in case things went sideways. 

The higher-tech ones that fit into their ears were expensive to make, so those were reserved for only the most dangerous undercover ops. This one? There was like, a 0.0001% chance of it becoming life-threatening. 

He handed one of the mics to Damian and fit the other one under his shirt where it couldn’t be seen. 

“Ok boys,” Babs started, and Damian immediately snapped to attention. He’d developed a massive amount of respect for Barbara very quickly, and he liked to pretend to be above it, but some of his favorite days were the ones where she would come over and teach him something hacking-related. Besides Bruce and maybe Cass, he probably listened to her the best when it came to Bat-related things. “Just knock and ask for Tim. Be insistent, if they say he isn’t there, come up with an excuse to get to his room, if they say he’s busy, say you need to just go get something from him.”

Dick and Dami both nodded seriously. “Remember, this is an intel mission, gather information, keep your eyes peeled. I won’t be able to talk much, since I’m at work, but I’m gonna record everything, and I’ll pull up their home camera system too.”

“Gotcha, Babs!” Dick said cheerily, sliding his feet into a pair of shoes. 

“Grayson and I appreciate your assistance, Barbara.” Damian said, before casting a self-satisfied glance at Dick, to make sure he’d heard. A few months ago, it would’ve been a shock, and it was still surprising to hear, but he ALWAYS practiced his manners with Babs now, ever since she’d started teaching him. He’d figured out pretty quickly that the nicer he was, the more Barbara would teach him, and it was the closest thing to Bat-training he was gonna get with Cass, his sparring buddy, out of town in Hong Kong.

“Thank you, Damian.” She said simply from the screen, before clicking her window closed. A few moments later, her tinny voice rang from both of their comms. 

“Yeah, we hear ya loud and clear!” 

Dick and Damian headed back up to the house, aboveground, and left through the front door. It was a fifteen-minute walk to Drake Manor, a walk which had Damian glowering by the end of it, though he refused to actually complain, lest Dick think he was weak or something. Sometimes, he was such a typical ten-year-old, it made him want to laugh. 

When they DID make it up the driveway to the massive house, there wasn’t a car in sight. Well, even if Jack and Janet were at work, Tim would probably be home, and he’d have no reason not to come to the door for Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne, even if he were avoiding Batman and Nightwing. 

Dick knocked on the door as loud as he could, hoping someone was around to hear it. Some staff member or maybe Tim himself, given that the manor was an insane size, and there wasn’t a doorbell in sight. 

Once five minutes had passed and nobody had shown up, even after a second and third knock, he called Babs. 

“Heya, Babs, is there anyone home? Could you look through the cameras?” She didn’t say anything at first, but after about a minute, he heard a hum. 

“It looks empty, but there aren’t cameras in any of the bathrooms, several of the bedrooms, and one study. I can’t tell you about any hidden rooms either.” Damian grumbled his disapproval, but after a few moments of thinking, Dick sighed. 

“Okay, change of plans. Dami, how about your first breaking-and-entering mission, huh? Babs, you can scrub us from their footage?” 

She hummed an affirmative over the mic, and Damian looked so pleased that again, Dick really wished he had a camera with him. Maybe he could make a scrapbook, all of Damian’s vigilante firsts. He could maybe even have Bruce send a copy to Talia, who would pretend she could care less but would also probably frame every picture. 

Yeah, he’d have to shelve that idea to return to. 

They crept around the side of the house via Babs’ directions to Tim’s bedroom, where the camera had been skillfully disabled by the truce-maker himself. Barbara was able to pull it back online, though, and it showed an empty bedroom. 

“Okay, Dami,” Dick started, once they’d reached the area below Tim’s window. “Remember, just recon. If you hear someone coming-”

“Grayson, I am a trained assassin.” At Dick’s look, he rolled his eyes-yup, definitely a Jason thing- and conceded, “Fine, I will not engage with anyone.” Damian reached under his shirt and fixed his mic to transmit to Dick’s, before turning and scaling the side of the house like a little baby ninja. 

Dick waited anxiously under the window as Damian opened it and slid inside. He could hear the faint rustling through the comm, and Dami’s light breathing. 

There was a muffled thump, and Dick jumped a little bit, but it was just the window sliding closed. 

Something else thumped, again, and Damian huffed in annoyance, which alleviated some of Dick’s concern. Boy he wished they’d brought a camera. 

And then Damian made a noise of surprise. Dick was about to shout through the comm for him to GET OUT if there was someone there, before a faint but familiar voice echoed through the tinny speaker. 

“Demon Brat? What the ever-loving FUCK are YOU doing here?”

Fantastic. 

  
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	14. Chapter 14 (Babs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So the past few months have been kind of a mess, and this story kind of fell by the wayside, but I promise I am not abandoning it! Right now I am editing chapter 15 so that I can post it tonight or tomorrow, because I know I left y'all on a cliffhanger and then just totally dropped off the map for a while :)
> 
> Right now, thanks to some personal things going on, this story can't be one of my priorities but I swear that I'm going to do my best to update as often as I can. Thanks for sticking with it!

One thing Barbara absolutely HATED was being out of the loop. 

Which is exactly what she was, stuck at the library, unable to follow Tim as he bolted towards the fight, without her systems or communication links or literally ANYTHING but a library monitor. And now, there was a thirteen-year-old kid running towards a fight with some of Gotham’s most notorious rogues and Bruce and Dick were both over there, looking like they were…losing. 

Barbara really didn’t know what to do, and it wasn’t like she could just ASK, since SHE DIDN’T HAVE HER COMMS. 

She certainly wasn’t gonna call Steph, since she’d only been training her as Batgirl for a few months, and she had to be out of practice on the physical stuff, since Cass was out of town, and that was who helped out on that front. Plus, Steph was barely fourteen, and sending more kids into a fight was a distinctly bad plan. 

But every minute she sat here doing nothing was a minute that Tim got closer to an extremely dangerous fight, a minute that Dick was in danger of getting injured by Harley or Bruce was in danger of being poisoned by Ivy. 

So there wasn’t really a ton of options. 

Well…

There was one. Only it was kind of a wildcard. 

The clock ticked on, though, so Barbara wheeled back towards the computer monitor with a sigh. It was time to call Jason. 

It took a good four minutes to hack his helmet, even though she’d done it a dozen times before. But this was a crappy public library computer, not exactly the world’s greatest hacking technology. She opened a line and started to talk.

“Red Hood, this is Oracle. I know you can hear me, so don’t bother pretending you can’t.”

Jason sighed dramatically over the line, something just about all the Bats save for Cass (bless her heart) had picked up from Bruce. “Jesus Christ, O, I haven’t even left the safehouse yet. Also, what the fuck?” He sniped, sounding distinctly put-out. 

“Language,” She admonished absently, barely even thinking about it. Ever since Damian had joined the little posse, it had become second-nature, since the League weren’t exactly fantastic with forbidding certain English words. 

“Before you ask, no. I’ve got plans tonight.” Jason grumbled through the line unhappily. That was fair, she supposed, given that he didn’t enjoy the reminders that she was keeping an eye on them, even if it was less for the Bats and more for herself. 

“Not anymore. Look, Hood, we all know that you don’t like working with us, but B and N got caught up in some trouble with Harley and Ivy, and-”She tried not to choke over her words, thinking about Tim’s eyes going wide before he’d just…ran. “And I’m stuck at the library in my civilian identity, and there’s a…a friend of mine who I think is about to go and do something stupid.”

Yeah, understatement of the year. Tim was quiet, not exactly shy once you got to know him, but he sure preferred the shadows to the spotlight. Him rushing towards a fight like this, recklessly and unexplained, it was much more of a Jason move, or even a Damian one, desperate to prove himself to Bruce as he was. 

“Nightwing and Bitchman can deal with Ivy and Harley on their own, Christ. They never even kill anyone anymore.” Typical, but valid. Jason was right, ever since Harley and the Joker had ended things for good and she’d gotten together with Ivy, the kill count for both of them dropped to almost nonexistent. Honestly, they were less of a threat than the Red Hood most of the time. 

But they still WERE a threat, and now, Tim was running headlong towards it.   
“They didn’t expect Harley to be helping out, they got the drop on the boys. Ivy’s got Batman in her little Robinson Park jungle. She doesn’t know it, but he isn’t carrying any more antidote, and N’s wrapped up fighting Harley. I…” 

She scrubbed a hand over her face. It was true, Bruce hadn’t synthesized any more antidote to Ivy’s toxins yet, unless he’d made a batch but forgotten to upload it to the Batcomputer, which had literally never happened before. Bruce was anal about stuff like that.

Barbara sighed and resigned herself to begging. “Hood, please. I can’t help them from here, and there’s this friend of mine, a civilian, who just…took off, towards the fight. I’m…I’m worried about them. All three. I’ll owe you, really.”

Dammit. Jay was gonna take that and run with it. She reminded herself that this was for Tijm, she was calling FOR TIM. Tim had literally never done something so dumb before and it made her want to actually scream.

“If you’ll steal me a new bike, AND B’s updated toxin information, AND three new grapples, then I’ll do it.” DAMMIT. Bruce was going to KILL her for this. Well, maybe not the toxin info, she was pretty sure B actually was dying to get that to Jason somehow, so he’d be safer. 

“The toxin info and the grapple guns, that’s it.” She tried to bargain, even though she knew Jason knew that she was in a box. 

“All three and I promise I won’t blow anybody’s brains out.” Ugh, okay. She could manage the bike, she supposed. Bruce would get over himself eventually. Plus, this might be good. If Jay fought alongside B and N without killing anyone, they could maybe start mending fences. 

“Deal. They’re in Robinson Park. Nightwing’s got Harley covered, but Batman’s inside of Ivy’s little jungle.” Jason grunted an affirmative and she heard the tell-tale whoosh of air that meant he was freerunning. 

“ETA six minutes, O. Hood, out.” Jason cut the line before she was able to say anything and Babs sighed, planting her face in her hands as lines of code scrolled across the screen of her monitor. That was that. She was basically useless from here and she hated it. 

She didn’t want to hack Dick or Bruce’s lines from here, just in case it was traced, or in case it accidently screwed something up with the massive amounts of virtual protective layers in place. Barbara DID have a backdoor in place, but it was strictly for the absolute worst emergencies, as it would self-destruct the moment she pulled out of it, and she’d have to redo the entire communication system she had in place. 

Yeah, she was worried for Tim and Bruce and Dick, but chances were that nobody was going to die. So Barbara pulled out her phone and rang Alfred. 

“Miss Gordon, what can I do for you?” Alfred asked over the line, as composed as ever. 

“Hey, Alfred. I’m stuck at the library right now. Could I bother you for a ride to the Tower?” Once she made it to the Clock Tower, she’d be surrounded by all of her systems, and maybe she would miss this particular fight, but she could make sure everyone was okay and then run the comms for their main patrol. 

Alfred hummed over the line. “Of course. I’ll be around with the car as soon as I get Master Damian settled.” That meant ‘as soon as I can get Damian to stop throwing his nightly hissy fit every time he gets left behind for patrol.’ 

“Thanks Alfred, you’re incredible.” She sighed over the line, tapping her nails on the desk. The butler hummed again, completely ignoring the faint crashes she could hear in the background. Damian, then. 

“Never a problem, Miss Gordon. I will be there shortly.” 

“Thanks.” The line clicked dead and she dropped her phone back to the desk with a sigh. God, this wasn’t going to go well, she knew it. Hopefully Jason would get there and put an end to the fight before Tim could insert himself into it and cause trouble. 

She had no idea why he was so adamant that they couldn’t send Poison Ivy, or ‘Dr. Isley’ back to Arkham. Maybe she was threatening him? Maybe she knew something important? Maybe…Tim wouldn’t actually WORK for a Rogue…would he? 

It didn’t make any SENSE! 

It didn’t make any SENSE, and she’d already been worried about Tim, for his bruises and his disappearing act, now she needed to worry he was a budding villain or something? What was she even supposed to DO with that? Tim was thirteen years old, never mind the fact that she’d taught him to hack almost every system on the entire planet!

Barbara suffered in silence, sitting in the closed library, for about twenty minutes, until a sleek SUV pulled up outside. One of Bruce’s many cars, of course, with Alfred behind the wheel. 

She rolled out of the building and towards the car, where Alfred helped her into a seat, folding her chair in the back. 

“Good evening, Miss Gordon. Master Dick has already called to assure me that everything is alright.” Barbara breathed a sigh of absolute relief. It wasn’t like she’d EXPECTED anything horrible to happen, but still. 

“Thanks, Alfred. I appreciate it.” He hummed, pulling back out onto the street. 

“You are most welcome.”

The drive to the Clock Tower was relatively short, and now that she knew everyone was fine, a whole lot less harrowing than her wait at the library. She and Alfred were mainly silent, making small talk at the beginning but stopping after a few minutes. She adored Alfred, and knew Dick thought of him like a grandfather, but they’d never been nearly as close as he was with the rest of the Bats. 

Barbara still HAD her father, still had a figure to turn to for advice and help, so she’d never needed to latch onto Alfred like Damian, Dick, Cass, Jason, Bruce. Even Steph, too, now that she was slowly being integrated into the family as a Batgirl trainee. 

Alfred helped her out of the car and into her chair before speeding back off to Wayne Manor, citing the need for Damian-wrangling. At this point, the kid had probably broken into every weapons closet in the Batcave. 

She took her elevator up to her little nest at the Clock Tower, a wave of calm washing over her as finally, she was surrounded by her computer systems. Within minutes she was online, Dick and Bruce’s comm lines within reach. 

Time to bother Dick into telling her EVERYTHING. 

Barbara opened the channels. 

“This is Oracle.” 

There was a muffled thump, and then Dick’s excited “O!” Because he was Batman, Bruce just grunted a grunt that translated roughly to ‘Hi Barbara, it’s nice to have you running comms now.’ Or so Cass said, every time they hung out while she was in charge of the comm lines for the night. 

Now, she opened a private line with Dick, because B wouldn’t enjoy the excess chatter, given that he was freakishly one-track-minded when it came to Bat stuff. 

“Hey, N, wanna tell me what happened? Tim Drake was at the library and took off towards the fight when he heard about it, so I called the Red Hood and sent him your way for backup.” 

Dick makes a noise over the comm line. “Yeah, about that,” and Barbara feels her stomach twist. Is Tim okay? Is Jason? “Did you know that Tim Drake and Poison Ivy were like, best friends?” Um…WHAT. 

Barbara literally chokes on the air, coughing into her arm in shock. WHAT? Tim…and Ivy…WHAT? “Yeah, O, she like, calls him Sapling and everything. He literally marched into her jungle and convinced her and B to forge a truce.” 

Her jaw actually drops. 

Tim, HER Tim, quiet confrontation-avoiding super-smart secretly-sassy thirteen-year-old Tim, friends with POISON IVY? Initiating a truce between her and actual BATMAN? Tim who flinches when someone drops a book on a table too loudly, Tim whose hands shake when she mentions his parents, Tim who’s into math and science and computers? 

There was like, a ZERO percent chance of him being a budding Rogue. No way. He didn’t even LIKE biology! 

As Batgirl, she and Ivy had worked together before on very rare occasions, and out of the Rogues Gallery, she was easily one of the most, if not THE most sane. She wasn’t a sadist, she wasn’t psychotic, and she wasn’t out to kill people for fun, even if they sometimes became collateral. And now that she and Harley were officially a thing, she’d mellowed out even more. 

So really, objectively, it wasn’t all that far-fetched for Ivy to take a kid under her metaphorical wing, but TIM? THAT kid? Tim, who she called Sapling and who organized a truce? No way. 

“Nightwing,” She wheezes, sounding strangled. “You need to tell me EVERYTHING.”

So he does. Dick tells her about how Tim was there when he and Jason burst into the clearing, how he got them all to agree to a treaty, how Ivy opened him a path right out of the clearing and told him to come visit her, how Jason apparently knew exactly who Tim was and followed him out, how Bruce just let the two of them stroll out of the park.

Barbara kind of feels like maybe she should start drinking. Just maybe. Tim…friends with Poison Ivy and the Red Hood. Probably also Harley, and maybe Selina. Tim, who she’s known for FOUR YEARS, and who has literally never mentioned any of this. 

Once patrol is over, Bruce calls her from the Batcomputer, still in the Batsuit. “Now,” Bruce starts, glancing between her and Dick, who is freshly showered and pulling up a chair. “I think that we have some things to discuss.”

Because he cannot stand tense conversations, Dick immediately sighs dramatically and gripes, “Jesus, B, do you REALLY have to sound so DRAMATIC about it?” Before looking at her, where her face would be displayed on the screen in a window, “Bruce didn’t even RECOGNIZE his own NEIGHBOR, Babs, can you believe it? Truly the world’s-”

“Not NOW, Dick.” Groans Bruce, cutting him off. It’s a well-practiced sentiment, one she’s heard from him for years, even before Jason joined the team. Sometimes, in moments like these, it strikes her that Bruce is…Bruce is a DAD. Like, a tired DAD of a dozen children, who goes to their middle school award ceremonies and wears the stupid T-shirts they buy him and has sixteen “World’s Best Dad” mugs, all proudly on display in his WE office. 

Most of them aren’t even from his ACTUAL children, they’re from Steph, the Row siblings, Dick’s friends, and even from her, all as a stupid, long-running joke that they all know that Bruce secretly enjoys. 

She pushes up her glasses before she can get interrogated, shaking her head. “Before you ask, Bruce, YES, I know Tim, NO I did not know he was…friends with Poison Ivy. NO I did not know he apparently knows the Red Hood.” Not until Dick told her over the comm line, after the fact. She’s honestly still trying to wrap her head around it all. 

Tim. HER Tim. Timothy Drake. It’s a puzzle and she’s working without the picture on the box. A whole pile of pieces and no clue how they all fit together. 

“I second that!” Chirps Dick. “I know Tim because he’s our neighbor, and I also think that I now deserve the title of-” And there goes Bruce, every bit a tired dad, sighing so long and intense it’s almost sarcastic. She can’t help but chuckle at Dick’s self-satisfied little smirk and the dead look in B’s eyes. 

“Dick. Please.” Is all that Bruce says in response, and Barbara is howling. Maybe she’s just tired and high-strung and worried about Tim, but the flat, sheer exhaustion radiating from Bruce, hunched over the computer still in his Batman suit, one hand covering his face is the most comical thing she’s seen all day. 

Once she can breathe again, she asks “You really didn’t recognize your neighbor, Bruce?” just to annoy him. It works. 

“Barbara.” 

Okay, but they DO have important things they need to talk about. “Okay, okay, Bruce. We’re done.” Barbara sends a look towards Dick to ask him to ALSO be at least a little more serious. She really IS worried about Tim, worried about what’s going on with him and his parents. 

Dick starts talking, taking the lead automatically. He’s a natural born leader, fits right in to any authority position. “Right, B, Babs came to me yesterday about Tim, who she like, mentors at the library or whatever, because-you know what, she should probably tell you about all this.” 

Yeah, she probably should, but it’s always been easier to let Dick do the talking. She tugs her ponytail with a sigh, and organizes her thoughts like a mission report, like a file summary. 

Bruce’s eyes are boring holes into her skull, even through the computer screen. “Tim showed up at the library when he was nine, four years ago. Since then, I’ve been teaching him how to manage computer systems and a few other useful skills, like the math and science I’ve been learning in my classes. He’s a smart kid, smartest kid that I know, really, he’d make a fantastic Bat, but I’ve never told him anything and he’s never even brought it up.”

And truth it, Tim WOULD make a fantastic Bat. He would probably end up being the best of all of them, quick as a whip, sharp, crazy intelligent with a penchant for problem-solving. At thirteen, he was the best person with computers that she knew, besides herself, even surpassing Bruce at this point. Maybe in another life, though. 

“He’ll come to the library almost every day for a period of a couple of months, and then he’ll just stop coming, for weeks, only showing up once or twice every few days. When that happens, he’s quieter, fidgety, and,” Her throat feels dry and scratchy, she has to swallow to try and clear it, to try and keep talking. “And sometimes I’ll see a few bruises. I’ve never looked into it though, never even learned his last name, until,”

Barbara hits a few keys and pulls up the headshots of Tim she’d gotten the other day to try and find his last name, feels her stomach curdle all over again at the handprint on the side of his face. 

“-Until yesterday when he showed up with this. I took pictures, I was gonna run a scan, but Dick recognized him as Tim Drake, your neighbor. TODAY, though, he came in again, and everything was pretty okay until I got a call from my dad, and I told him you two were fighting Ivy.”

Dick looks a little more alert now, listening with renewed intent. This is the important part, the part that Bruce needs to hear the most, the part that interferes with Batman instead of Bruce Wayne. 

“So he just bolted once you said that?” Dick asks her. He sounds laid-back but Barbara knows that he isn’t. He’s not just Dick Grayson, he’s also Nightwing, and she can see the Nightwing sharpness in his eyes. 

“No, he said that ‘Dr. Isley’ shouldn’t go back to Arkham, and said we should turn on the news, it wasn’t until you got caught by her vines, Bruce, that he just…started running. He didn’t even say anything, just stood up and sprinted away.” 

Dick and Bruce both made expressions that reflected her own confusion. It was so…weird. Sometimes, Tim could be a little odd, okay, sure. But this? Just sprinting off with no explanation at all? It was such a Not-Tim thing to do. 

Bruce’s lips thinned, before he said, “Before you and the Red Hood arrived, Tim mentioned not wanting to send Poison Ivy back to Arkham ‘with the Joker.’ Does that mean anything to either of you?” 

Her wheels were spinning, running through her short conversation with Tim, running through Dick’s story, running through what Bruce’d just said. He really WAS a fantastic detective, picking up on tiny, unimportant details like that. 

But Dick’s face lit up, like he’d just realized something. “Harley and Ivy are a thing now, right Babs? And Joker’s Harley’s ex. Maybe he’s been trying to get back at Ivy or something for that?” 

Her brilliant, brilliant, ex-boyfriend. That was…that had to be it. That had to be the WHY, the answer to why Tim would be worried about stopping Ivy from going to Arkham. But the HOW? She had nothing at all. 

How would Tim even have the chance to meet Ivy in the first place? She stayed sequestered in Robinson Park constantly, rarely ever leaving except to go and see Selina and Harley. So what was even going ON there, how did Tim KNOW her?

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I don’t know, guys. I can see Tim being concerned about Poison Ivy being in danger in Arkham, thanks to the Joker, but I have no clue how he KNOWS her. And that’s not even TOUCHING on the Red Hood thing.”

Bruce furrowed his brow briefly, trying to pull a plan out of thin air like he always seemed to be able to do. 

“Dick, tomorrow night, you need to track down the Red Hood. We need to know how he knows Tim Drake, and whether or not he knows how Tim knows Poison Ivy.” Bruce declared with Batman authority. 

But thanks to all those lessons on B’s tells with Cass, Barbara knew what he wasn’t saying. 

Bruce’s theory was that Ivy was training Tim, turning him into a Gotham Rogue, and he probably also thought that the Red Hood knew all about it. But this was Tim, and that…if Tim was a Rogue apprentice, she’d eat her shoe. 

“Tim isn’t a budding supervillain, Bruce, I know him. Also, he’s thirteen.” Bruce’s lips thinned again, and he jerked his head into a shake. 

“While in the clearing, Poison Ivy mentioned Catwoman to him, and he stated that he did not like stealing things and did not want her to train him. That’s not what I’m concerned about here.” 

Oooo…kay, then what? B was in Batman mode, still wearing most of his suit, face mostly blank, and dictating plans and orders already. So he HAD to be worried about something on the Batman side of things, the Poison Ivy and Red Hood things, not the handprint bruises and disappearing act things that were more Bruce Wayne. 

“Well then Bruce, would you like to share with the class?” Dick started sarcastically. “What ARE you concerned about then? What’s the grand plan, tell him to stop befriending Rogues and getting you to make truces with them?” 

She snorted at the immensely long-drawn-out sigh that that managed to draw out of Bruce. “No, Dick, the truces aren’t an issue. It’s the fact that this thirteen-year-old had bruises like this and hangs out with Rogues and was somehow at Robinson Park after dark, talking to Poison Ivy, and nobody was looking for him.”

Oh…yeah. Yeah, shit, yeah. Yeah, that was the bigger issue and now that Bruce said it like that…Barbara didn’t like to curse, but FUCK. Yeah, Barbara had been worried about Tim and his bruises, been worried about what would come from him hanging out with Rogues, but she’d never stopped to consider why he was able to hang out with them in the first place. And wasn’t it obvious?

“Bruce, the times he disappears from the library and only comes in with bruises and such, they’re the times his parents are home from their vacations. Their THREE-MONTH LONG vacations, Bruce. They just leave him at home, alone, for MONTHS.”

God, why did she have to be so concerned with looking at this from a case perspective? Tim was just a kid, not a case, a kid who was alone all the time, a kid who was probably scared and sad and looking for anyone at all to latch on to. 

It made sense, that way, when she took a step back. Tim was a kid, just a kid, who had been left alone, parentless, nannyless, friendless, and in his eyes, Poison Ivy was a mother figure. Someone who-according to Dick, who was quoting Bruce-fed him and worried about him and called him pet names. Someone who cared. 

She had known Tim for four years, sure, but she was only twenty years old, not exactly a good surrogate to latch on to, and he’d always seemed more like a younger brother or cousin. Ivy, on the other hand, was in her thirties and used to taking care of all of her plants like they WERE her children. 

“Barbara,” Bruce was practically growling, sounding choked off. “I am going to need you to send me the Drakes’ travel records.” She nodded, even though she was already starting to prepare a file on them. Bruce was…he’d always had a soft spot for kids in trouble. Nothing hit him harder. 

She hears Dick start theorizing but doesn’t look up from her work, talking about the Drake Industries explosion. It’s a connection to the Red Hood, they all know, but none of the other strings are connecting for her. Jason blows up Drake Industries, and he also knows Tim. It can’t be a coincidence, but she needs more information to create theories with any accuracy. 

Because Bruce needs to be in control of every situation, he starts talking. “Dick, Barbara, we need to investigate the Drakes, including Tim. Tomorrow, Dick, I want you to go over there and find a way into the house, try and find Tim. Take Damian if you need an excuse. Barbara, I need a file put together, anything you can find regarding Drake Industries and Jack and Janet Drake. Tim too. This is officially an open case.” 

Not long after, she signed off with a brief goodbye to Dick, immersed in the making of the Drakes’ file. Barbara couldn’t fix Tim’s past, but by God was she going to reconstruct his future, whatever it took. 

Barbara wanted to rip her hair out of her skull and shriek with frustration. 

Of course, OF COURSE, Jason Todd was ALSO doing a home invasion, breaking into Drake Manor at the EXACT SAME TIME that they were. And because Dick Grayson was a total DICK, the MOMENT that he’d heard Jason through the comms, it had been “Oh crap, Babs, we need to call you back.” 

On what PLANET was closing the comm line at a Red Hood encounter a smart idea? In what GALAXY!? 

Dick had his head stuck so far up in the clouds, literally every time he had an unplanned meeting with his brother, he closed the line. Why? Well Barbara sure didn’t know. It wasn’t even like they were ever PRIVATE conversations! They were almost always about a case! DAMIAN was literally there RIGHT NOW, and he was the one ACTUALLY TALKING TO the Red Hood, 

Aargh! 

She would give any amount of money to have Cass back from Hong Kong right now. Any. Amount. 

And here she was, stuck behind her desk at the library with a dead comm line, mouth gaping. 

Fine. 

If that was how Dick wanted to play this, FINE. This case was about TIM, not about Dick and his soap opera with Jason and Bruce, and SHE was the one who actually KNEW Tim. 

Like HELL if she was gonna let Nightwing call the shots, not when he acted like this. 

So Barbara shut down her monitor and told her supervisor she needed to go home early for a family emergency. It was time to go right to the source. She needed to place a call. 

As Batgirl, she’d worked with the Sirens several times, but the team-ups were usually her, Bruce, and Catwoman. But she DID know Poison Ivy, and at one point, may have even considered her an ally. After the accident, though, Batgirl had dropped off the map entirely, with Steph only just now starting to do joint patrols in the costume. 

But Oracle? Oracle had Poison Ivy’s cell number after she’d helped her out a year ago. And Oracle had a favor she was about to call in. 

Once Barbara made it to the Clock Tower, she immediately pulled up Ivy’s number and typed a few quick lines of code to make sure the call was entirely untraceable, routing it through a dozen different countries and making sure that the caller ID showed her alias. 

Ivy picked up on the fourth ring. 

“Oracle? To what do I owe the pleasure.” Barbara could hear Harley Quinn’s distinctive giggle in the background. A date day then?

“Ivy. I’m calling in my favor.” The woman sighed over the line, distinctly put-out. 

“Darling, I’m having brunch right now. Can’t the planet-destroying threat wait until I’ve finished my mimosa?” And wow, okay, Ivy really did sound like a wine mom right now. Having brunch with her girlfriend, drinking mimosas, saying ‘darling.’ It wasn’t difficult for her to imagine Tim latching on to Ivy as a mother figure. 

She cleared her throat. “Actually, it’s not that, and it won’t take long. I need you to tell me what you know about Tim Drake.” Silence. Even Harley’s general noise had stopped completely. 

“Is,” Ivy coughed. “Is Timmy in danger?” Barbara scrubbed a hand over her face. It wasn’t surprising that Ivy would be reluctant to talk about Tim, given that he probably trusted her and she probably cared about him. But she ALSO cared about Tim, and she needed answers. 

“We…don’t know. Yet. Look, I know you and Tim are…I know you know each other. And I’m not asking you to divulge every little detail, but we need to know how you met, how often you guys see each other. It’s…Tim’s kind of in the middle of a case right now.” Understatement of the year, Tim WAS the case. But if she could get Ivy to tell her how they met, how well they know each other, they might be able to fill in some missing pieces. 

Might. 

There was some shuffling over the phone, some unintelligible murmuring, probably Ivy and Harley talking to each other, which did confirm that Tim also knew Harley to some extent, and then Ivy let out a long breath of air. 

“I’ll tell you some, JUST because I owe you this favor and I want Tim to be safe. But I’m hanging up if my brunch starts getting cold.” 

“Deal.” Said Barbara immediately, starting to record the call. Ivy made a little ‘hm’ sound. 

“I met Tim three years ago when I caught him sitting in a tree around midnight watching me fight Batman and Robin in Robinson Park.” Barbara choked. 

Excuse her? EXCUSE HER? Ignoring Ivy’s disgruntled noises, she tried to force herself to stop coughing. What the…what the HELL? “Excuse me?” She finally managed to force out in a strangled voice. “Midnight…in…in the park? Watching…what? Could you elaborate, please?” She was literally seconds away from having an aneurysm. 

Ivy sighed like she was bored. “Darling, please. You Bats aren’t quite the detectives you like to claim you are. Timmy’s been following all of you on your patrols for four years now, taking pictures.” And then, as if she hadn’t just dropped the biggest bomb ever, continued on with a casual, “He’s really quite the little photographer, it’s a shame his talent is wasted on all of you.”

Jesus H. Christ. 

Jesus CHRIST what the HELL?

Four years would place Tim at nine, just around the time that they’d first met at the library. Four entire years and she’d never know that he…what? Tracked them all through the night? Did he know their identities? Their safehouses? Their routes? 

So…what? Not a single one of them ever notice a scrawny little kid photographing them on patrol, but Poison Ivy finds and befriends him right away? Did…if Tim knows things, did he share them with her? As if she’d spoken out loud, Ivy scoffed over the phone line. 

“Oh relax, Oracle. Timmy’s never TOLD me anything about your little rodent club, he just shows me the pictures sometimes, since it isn’t like there’s anyone ELSE to admire them. They really are fantastic, by the way.”

Barbara tries her very hardest to keep her head, to be Oracle instead of Barbara Gordon, to look at this like any other case. It isn’t, though, because she’s known Tim for four years and he’s never mentioned the fact that he stalks the Bats. Did that mean he knew who they all were? 

“Did um,” she clears her throat, tugging her ponytail. “You said nobody else sees the photos?” 

Ivy huffed on the other end, annoyed. “Of course, that’s what you’re concerned about. But it isn’t like he’d going to show them to his PARENTS, those awful people. I’ve offered to poison them many times for him, you know, but inconceivably, he’s never agreed.”

She said it like it was a long-standing argument, like she and Tim talked about it all the time. Okay, so maybe it kind of hurt, a little bit, that Tim would spill his guts to Poison Ivy, a Rogue, instead of her. Not exactly a fair sentiment, she knew, but yeah. That stung a little bit. 

“I-okay. Okay. So…so how often do you see him? You guys just…talk?” Harley was complaining vaguely in the background. 

“Just a MINUTE, Harley.” Muttered Ivy. “Yes, yes, Darling, don’t fret. He’s turned down ALL of me, Selina, and Harley’s offers for training. He’d be an excellent little sidekick, but he’s quite obsessed with the whole ‘right and wrong’ debacle. Every time I have a skirmish with the Bats, he hangs out afterwards, and sometimes he comes to visit during the daytime. Honestly, Oracle, the kid doesn’t EAT enough, somebody needs to feed him. He’s the size of a houseplant!”

Before Barbara could ask what they talked about, or about the whole him-being-buds-with-all-the-Gotham-City-Sirens thing, Ivy snorted. “Oh, don’t bother asking, I won’t tell you what we talk about. But I’m far past my ‘corrupting the youth’ phase, and so are the rest of us. He’s a sweet kid, though, very smart. We just invite him to movie night once in a while, if,” she sniffed distastefully, “Jack and Janet are out of town.”

So Ivy clearly knew all of the details on Jack and Janet Drake, or at least, a lot of them, but she wasn’t telling, so it was most likely that they weren’t entirely relevant to the case. She really did seem invested in Tim’s life, so if there were some harrowing details about Jack and Janet, it was fairly likely she would share them. 

Barbara only had one more incredibly pressing question to clear up. “Okay, okay. Thanks, Ivy. Just one more thing, do you know how he knows the Red Hood?” She hummed, sniffing a little bit. 

“I have no idea, no. It’s been bothering me, actually, quite a bit. If I weren’t going to destroy this phone the minute we hang up, I’d ask you to keep me posted. But my brunch is getting cold now, so you’d best wrap this up, hmm?”

Honestly, she was a little surprised Ivy was still on the line, so Barbara decided to count her blessings and move along. Plus, she had a CRAP load more information now than she’d had a moment ago. 

“Yeah, alright. Really, Ivy, thank-”

The dial tone sounded, the line going dead. Barbara sighed and planted her head into her hands. She had a lot of work to do. 

.  
.  
.  
.


	15. Chapter 15 (Jason)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the cliffhanger is over! And mildly anticlimactic, now that I'm rereading it! Also idk if this ever happens to any of you, but I have actually fucked my hands up when I've gone on cleaning sprees if I've used too much bleach or something, but maybe I just have unnaturally weird skin who knows. This will make sense once you're read the chapter lol.

Damian. 

Of-fucking-course DAMIAN was here, in Drake Manor, investigating at the EXACT same time that he was. Typical. 

And wherever Damian was, Dick was never far behind. 

The Demon Brat was standing in the middle of Tim’s room, face fixed with an absolutely lethal glare, a knife in each hand. 

“Todd?” He snarled, brandishing his (probably contraband) weapons. “What business do you have here?” Jason scoffed, crossing his arms. This little punk. 

“Uh, excuse? I was here first, Brat. What are YOU doing here?” 

Before the ten-year-old could come up with some biting retort, the window behind him slid open and Dick flopped into the room, red-faced. Aaaaand THERE he was. Yaaaaaaay. Fuckin’ dick. 

“Damian,” he panted a little, probably out of breath from flying up the building without breathing at all, “Put those knives away. Where did-nevermind.” He turned towards Jason now, oh joy, face making a confused expression. 

“Jay, why are you…here? Also,” he fiddled with something under his shirt, probably a mic or something. “How do you know Tim Drake?” So was this a home invasion AND an interrogation now? Killing two birds with one stone. 

Boy, he did NOT wanna be here with these two right now. 

Damian was a self-righteous little asswipe of a child, and Dick was the exact same thing, just in…the opposite direction? Yeah. 

But he’d known the Bats were gonna show up asking questions at some point, and boy, was he a great truth-bender. So he gestured incredulously, making a face. “Uh, HELLO, Dickface? I literally flat out TOLD you I blew up the Drakes’ drug lab. Whaddaya THINK I’m doing?”

Dick’s lips thinned into a line, and Damian’s scowl deepened, if possible. He still hadn’t put the knives away either. 

“You will address Grayson, with respect, Todd.” The little Demon growled, falling into an attack position. Dick shook his head, grabbing Damian’s arm before he could lunge, and Jason smirked. 

“Oh, so you DO care about Dickstick, huh? That’s so adorable.” Jason reached over to pinch his cheek., but Dick smacked his hand away. Probably for the better, honestly, since Damian might have just lopped it off. “Anyways,” he drawled, hefting the duffle up onto his shoulder. “I rescued Tim the other night from a mugging and bought him some falafel from a street cart.” 

It wasn’t like he and Tim had held a massive conversation in the clearing or something, mainly he’d just recognized him and then pursued him after all the talking was over. They could have their suspicions, but it wasn’t like they’d be able to do anything about it. 

They would never even consider him bringing Tim to a safehouse, nor would they think much about Tim compiling drug ring evidence, since that was probably just a passing note at this point. 

Dick’s eyes narrowed, like he suspected he wasn’t getting the whole truth. “Do you know why he was in the clearing with Poison Ivy?”

Jason snorted and rolled his eyes even though yes, he did know. “Do I look like Oracle, Golden Boy? Fuck if I know, I was just surprised to see the kid.” And then, because the Red Hood sure as hell did not pull punches, he tacked on, “You know how I feel about kids like that.” 

Bingo. 

Dick’s eyes widened and then went all soft. The perfect excuse-not way too big of a lie, with some emotions on the side. A moment passed of their awkward little standoff until Damian nodded towards the duffle bag. 

“Tell me what you are stealing.” Jason scoffed. 

“What’s the magic word?” He singsonged mockingly, just to watch the Demon Brat’s cheeks puff up in anger. Dick had to reaffirm his grip on the Brat to make sure he didn’t launch himself at Jason. He was met with two glares, one notably angrier than the other, which was just annoyed. 

“Seriously, Jay, what’s in the bag?” With another dramatic eyeroll, Jason slightly unzipped the bag and pulled out a weird golden egg thing that he’d nabbed, trying to pull a story out his ass. 

“Evidence collection, Dickhead. The Drakes got this on their last trip to Chile,” total lie, he had no clue where their weird egg was from, “and it’s shown up in several of their documents related to their drug industry.” A complete lie, 100% and totally made up, the egg just looked expensive and he planned to pawn it off. “I’m swiping clues.”

No, he was swiping taking-care-of-Tim supplies and rich-people artifacts to sell. 

But this seemed to satisfy Dickface enough to leave it alone. The Demon still looked a little suspicious, and STILL hadn’t sheathed his knives, but he didn’t say anything. Jason crossed his arms after rezipping the duffle. 

“What are YOU asshats doing here, then? Lookin’ for Tim?” Dick shifted a little, glancing around Tim’s nerd room. He half shrugged absently as his eyes scanned the shelves of books, the computer monitor. 

“Ah, kinda, yeah. We’re looking for…evidence. Um, on how he knows Poison Ivy, that kind of stuff.” That was definitely a Bat thing to do, digging into a thirteen-year-old kid’s life, though his bedroom, trying to figure out why he’d get Batman to make peace with a Rogue. 

Annoying? Yeah. Invasive as all fuck? Completely. But Jason already had all of Tim’s important shit, tucked away in his duffle, so Dickwad and Demon Brat were a day late and a dollar short. All they’d find out was that he lived in a goddamn mausoleum and read computer science textbooks like they were bibles or something. 

Jason gave a faux cheery salute and edged around Dick and Damian towards the window. “Welp, I’ll be going now. Have fun detecting, detectives!” 

Damian made an aborted half-step in his direction but stopped at Dick’s squeeze of his arm. “Jay, seriously, if you figure anything out about Tim, could you let one of us know? We’re trying to find him to ask questions, but we don’t know how much he’d be willing to say.” 

It was with a small, self-satisfied glow that filled his stomach, because they WEREN’T gonna find Timmy, they WEREN’T going to be able to drill him with questions and then cart him back off to the Drakes. He was gonna make sure of it. 

But he shrugged nonchalantly. “Sure, whatever, Dick-for-brains. Hasta nunca!” With that, he leapt out the window, tucking and rolling on the soft grass. 

He knew that either Dick or Damian ormaybe even both of them were gonna be tracing him just in case, so once he pulled his bike out from its hiding place, Jason spent an entire half-hour leading whoever his tail was on a wild goose chase across the city that ended when he stopped for a chilidog. Out of the corner of his eye he watched a small shadow pelt across the rooftop next to him, heading back towards the manor. 

Ahhh, sweet victory. 

He wasn’t too far from the safehouse he’d left Tim at, so once he finished his makeshift lunch, Jason rushed back. It had been over two hours, and the kid was probably freaking out, at least a little bit. Or not, he thinks, as he pulls into the alleyway he uses for parking, since Tim had seemed pretty enraptured with the prospect of cleaning. 

It makes sense, really, now that he’s seen Drake Manor. That place creeped him out, it was like a fucking hospital. 

Jason scales the fire escape and rolls through the window, tossing his helmet towards his bedroom. He’s hit instantly by the stench of cleanliness, and a startled Tim accidently drops the rag he’s holding with a yelp. 

“Timmy,” he starts, “We may have a problem.”

Okay, looking at the state of the kid’s cracked hands, several problems. Tim looks vacant, standing there in a glittering kitchen. It’s sparkly clean, cleaner than it’s probably ever been, and yeah, that’s nice as hell, but Timmy is decidedly NOT all that fine. 

The kid seems to kid of shake himself off though, and he asks, “What’s wrong? What happened?” Jason ignores his instinct to glower at Timmy’s raw-looking hands and sighs instead. 

“Well, it looks like Nightwing and Batman are 100% on your trail, Kiddo. They’re out lookin’ for you, I ran in to them searching your house.” Tim’s eyes widen in panic and he holds up a hand. “Don’t worry, I was already done. I got your camera and pictures and all.” His shoulders droop in relief.

He really, seriously does NOT want the Bats to see those photos. Is he just embarrassed, or…or is there something going on there?

Tim swallowed and looked back at the rag on the floor. “Um…I cleaned?” Jason snorted, dropping the duffle bag on the coffee table. 

“Yeah, no kidding. It looks great, Timmy, but you gotta watch your hands, Bud, look at them.” The kid glanced down at his hands and twisted his eyebrows, like he was only just noticing that they were rubbed red and cracking. 

“I…didn’t notice, I guess. It’s no big deal though, they’ll be fine.” Jason rolled his eyes, glad he was wearing a generic lens-less domino so that Tim could see it. 

“Uh huh, sure. No big deal. C’mon, I have Vaseline in the bathroom, we can tape ‘em up.” And Christ, Timmy just looked so…confused. Small and tiny and confused as to why anyone would even care at all, why anyone would give a fuck that he’d ruined his hands cleaning. 

As far as coping mechanisms went, that was one he’d have to keep an eye on. Between the obsessive, self-destructive fixation with cleanliness and the obsessive, self-destructive fixation with stalking and photographing vigilantes and their villains, Timmy was shaping up to be one fucked up thirteen-year-old. 

That was okay. He had quite a bit of experience with fucked-up kids at this point. Technically, he WAS one. 

Jason prodded Tim in the back until he started moving his feet towards the bathroom. Jason sat him down on the toilet and started rummaging for the Vaseline and the first aid kit under the sink. 

“Hey, Hood, you really don’t have to. In like, two or three days they’ll be fine.” Even though he was still kneeled on the floor under the sink, Jason rolled his eyes again. 

“Look, Tim,” he grunted, pulling out the wrappings he used for burns, “I know you aren’t used to people being concerned about you.” Tim opened his mouth to try and defend himself, but Jason didn’t wanna hear it. “Trust me, Kiddo, I wasn’t either. When I first got in the business, I was used to being the only person ever looking out for me. But that wasn’t true anymore.” 

Jason gingerly took one of Timmy’s tiny little hands and started spreading the jelly over it, doing his best to keep the kid’s winces to a minimum. When he’d first become Robin, even though as far as Tim knew, he’d only ever been the Red Hood, it had taken him forever to get used to having people in his corner. 

Dick, Bruce, Babs, Alfred. He’d gone from zero to four within days, and it had certainly been an adjustment. But a damn good one. Now, he had Kori, Roy, and he was starting to have Dick again, and even Babs. 

So far, the allies that he knew about for Tim? Poison motherfucking Ivy. 

Well. 

And himself, now. 

“Kid, I’m saying,” he started, as he finished wrapping up the first hand and moved to the second, “That I…” and Christ, this made it real, didn’t it? “I…care.” 

Fuckin’ hell, this was difficult. Damn. 

He really went and pulled a Bruce. 

Jason Todd, the honest to God Red Hood, a zombie/criminal/vigilante, went and pulled a Bruce. Swiped a child like they were a stray cat or something. 

God damn it, he’d really gone and done it. 

Like HELL was Timmy ever gonna be seen in a pair of green underpants hoppin’ around Gotham stopping crime. 

He pulled his eyes away from the wrapping of Tim’s hands to look up at the kid’s face. Tim was slack-jawed and wide-eyed, and as soon as Jason looked, he immediately averted his gaze. 

After a beat, Tim cleared his throat. “T-thanks.” His voice sounded hoarse and quiet, so Jason just turned back down to finish wrapping up his Vaselined hand with a pat. 

“Uh, that oughta do it, Timmers.” He grunted gruffly, doing a frankly terrible job of masking his emotions. 

“I, uh, thank you, Hood. Really, I…” He looked away again, face flushed pink, as usual. “I’ve never, um,” he twitched his hands, where they sat in his lap, and finally met Jason’s eyes with an earnest gaze. Jason felt a little tug at his heartstrings. “Uh, nobody’s ever really…” Tim trailed off, but he got it. 

The idea that nobody’d ever even given the kid band-aids when he’d gotten hurt made the green haze threaten the edges of his vision, but like he’d been doing lately, Jason forced it down like bile, willing it to just fester in his stomach until it hibernated again. 

FUCK Jack and Janet Drake, but by God, Timmy was never gonna see their faces again if he could help it. 

The kid was just so…so sweet and gentle and brilliant and somehow also a total badass, and he was way too good for those fucking assholes. He was way too good for Jason, too, but also, it was unlikely that there was a single person on earth that deserved Tim Drake. 

But he just nodded, patted his hands, and pushed up so he was standing, moving out of the way so Timmy could get off of his seat on the toilet. The kid wandered back into the main room and Jason hastily shoved the tub of Vaseline and the first-aid kit back under the sink before joining him. 

Timmy was eyeing the duffle bag, so Jason nodded towards it. 

“Why don’tcha open that up, stick your toothbrush in the bathroom and all? I stuck it in a Ziploc, don’t worry.” Tim moved towards the duffle bag and started unzipping it. 

“Thanks, Hood.” He fishes out the Ziploc-ed toothbrush and toothpaste and sticks them in the bathroom, and then digs around until he manages to unearth his weird film camera and the lockbox of photographs. 

Jason watches as Tim reverently turns the camera around in his hands. Jason nods towards it, leaning on the back of the couch. 

“’S that the camera you take your nighttime pictures with?” The kid startles a little bit before shooting him a glance and nodding, but then returning to looking over the thing. He’s twisting the little knobs on it, checking the lens maybe, but it looks like a comfort item. 

“Uh, yeah. I…I like to develop the photos. I, uh, built a darkroom when I was eight. It was a Christmas present.” The camera or the darkroom stuff or both, Jason wonders. His Christmases had always consisted of a new shirt or a new pair of shoes or maybe a new book, before he’d moved in with Bruce and Dickhead. After that, they’d gotten a lot more lavish. 

“That’s really cool, Timbo. Seriously.” He says, moving around the couch to sit down next to the kid, who’s somehow STILL fiddling with the camera. 

Now, he doesn’t just glance, but stills his hands on the camera and looks up at Jason’s face with a shy smile tugging his lips. “It’s…it’s kinda my favorite thing. The pictures you take are just so much…er…” He trails off, glancing away with a flush. 

Jason offers what he hopes is an encouraging grin. “What? So much what?” 

“Um,” Timmy starts again, still blushing fiercely, “Um, when you shoot digital, you have unlimited frames, you can delete the blurry ones whenever, they’re always right there.” He smooths a thumb over the shutter button on the top, looking up again. “But, uh, when you shoot like this, uh, you only have so much film? And every picture has to be, like, individually developed, and they all just feel more, uh, important? Even, like, the blurry ones.”

The blush was still raging, and he shook his head. “Uh, sorry, I know that sounds stupid.” Jason could feel his heart twisting in his chest, the way the kid curled around himself, shutting off. 

“No, seriously, Timmy, that makes sense. Like, there’s more time put into every picture, so ALL of them are good, just because of that?” Tim bites his lip a little and gives a small, hesitant nod. 

“Y-yeah.” He sets the camera on the table, fidgeting a little bit. 

Jason nods towards the lockbox. “Are ALL of your pictures in that thing, or just the Batman ones?” He still kinda looks like he doesn’t believe anyone would ever wanna talk about his photography but shakes his head anyways after a long glance. 

“Um, no, I uh, I made a photo album of the other ones, once.” He doesn’t offer any more than that, instead taking the box in his hands and saying, “All the good ones are in here anyways.” 

Timmy’s still just staring down at the box, kind of like it’s a school textbook, blank and vaguely confused. “I didn’t grab a key for that thing, Buddy.” He tries, knowing full well he could crack that lock in seconds. Now, the kid looks up at him, a tiny, barely-there smirk gracing his lips. 

“I tossed the key ages ago. I only ever use paperclips, just in case.” Okay, so Timmy’s got more detective skills than just the insane hacking repertoire. Impressive. Jason grins at him, and pulls two out of his pocket. 

“Will you show me some of your favorites?” Tim’s face, which had been returning to its normal paper pale, flushes beet red again at full force, and for a second Jason’s worried he’s totally overstepped. But after a beat, Tim nods and takes the clips. 

He makes pretty quick work of the lock, which makes sense because he’s apparently been picking it for ages, but it’s still impressive for someone with no training. The kid probably learned off of YouTube. He slides the lock off and pops the lid to reveal meticulously filed rows of photographs. 

They’re separated by season and year, dating back a little over four years ago, and at some places random tabs stick up, but Jason guesses those are less random and more one of the Wunderkid’s crazy impressive organizational tools. 

The evidence from the Angel Juice case? So incredibly easy to work with, he had half a mind to ask Timmy to apply his systems to all his other cases. 

Tim scans a finger through the photos before stopping and pulling one out. There’s a date on the back, it’s from when Dickhead was still Robin. 

Jason takes the offered photo worshipfully, making sure not to leave any smudges. It’s fucking fantastic, is what it is. 

So, he wasn’t exactly sure what quality pictures to be expecting, maybe a few long-distance shots, or maybe some kinda like the evidence photos he’d provided-strictly informational, and taken from awkward, hidden locations. 

These, though? They’re fucking masterpieces. 

The photo’s of Dick, wearing the scaly green panties, mid-backflip between two roofs. His hair is blown out behind him, and his mouth is open in a carefree laugh. It’s stunning, though, really. He looks suspended midair, almost as if he were arching in the water, happy, young. The bright Robin costume is the only pop of color against the dark Gotham skyline. 

Jason can only let out a long, low whistle. He had no clue how Tim managed to photograph a picture like this, not at what? Eight? Nine? How he got this close is a mystery. 

“Wow, Kiddo, this is incredible. Like, seriously, this is amazing.” Tim smiles bashfully, ducking his head so the long strands of black hair fall in front of his face. 

“It was one of the first, like, good ones I took.” Jason gently passes it back. 

“Can I see more?” Now that he knows how fucking amazing of a photographer Tim is, it’s less of a passive intrigue and more of a demanding curiosity. He wants to see HIMSELF, he wants to see Jason Todd as Robin through the eyes of a younger Tim Drake. 

It’s self-centered and he knows it, but, Christ, he wants to see himself as a HERO again.

Tim slides Dick’s photo back into place and pulls out another one. This time, it’s him. 

Honestly? It kinda makes him want to cry a little bit. 

Because the kid in the picture is just so…different. The kid in the picture is a relic, a memory, a dead thing with a headstone to boot. The picture itself though? It could practically be a fucking movie. 

Tim passes it over gently. “This is my favorite one, I think.” He just nods thickly, throat too constricted to say anything. 

Because it’s him, in the stupid fucking circus costume, face alight with a smirky looking grin, next to Bruce himself on a rooftop. And Bruce? Bruce is fucking LAUGHING. Head thrown back, absolutely howling with laughter, with one arm crossing his chest and the other with its hand on Jason’s shoulder. The sprawling skyline stretches behind them, neon signs lighting up their faces. And CHRIST, Jason doesn’t even remember this night. 

It’s funny, really, because he’s sitting here staring at a younger, happier, completely different version of himself, getting all nostalgic for his days as Robin, with Batman and Nightwing and Batgirl on his side, and he doesn’t even REMEMBER the moment that’s making him all nostalgic. 

Of course he has vague memories of Bruce actually laughing when he’d said something, of Bruce with his hand on his shoulder, of Bruce being Bruce instead of Batman. But this night? This moment? He can’t recall it at all. And Jason regrets that. 

He can’t stare too long at this picture, or else Timmy’s gonna get suspicious, so he clears his throat and passes it back over with hesitation. 

The kid just continues on, filing it away with a small “thanks,” and pulling out another, closer to the front. “Um, I don’t have many pictures of Black Bat because she’s, like, practically invisible, but this one’s my best, I think.”

Holy fucking shitballs, Tim was able to track CASSANDRA motherfucking CAIN? The fuck? He was thirteen, doing what leagues of ninja couldn’t do? “Damn, Timbers, I’m just impressed you managed to get any pictures at ALL of her!” He says as he takes the picture. 

The kid glows with satisfaction, cracking a grin. “No offense, I think she might be the best. Until a few months ago, I wasn’t even sure she existed.” Jason snorted as he stared at the picture. 

“Yeah, none taken. She’s definitely the best. Beats Batman every time they spar, it’s nuts.” The picture of Cass as Black Bat is amazing as well, but different than the other two. 

This one’s not so lighthearted, it’s sharper, darker, more…Black Bat. She’s crouched on a roof, one leg out, with the inky cape billowing behind her. Either through his secret ninja skills or an insane zoom (or a combination of both), Tim’s managed to capture the way her eyes narrow behind the domino mask and the way her mouth is twisted in a concentrated line. 

Maybe he should sneak photographs of some of these at some point, because Cass might upgrade him on her favorite-family-members list if he sent this to her. It’s spectacular. 

“I, um, I got lucky and figured out where her stakeout was, one night, and I managed to hide on the roof next to her.” Tim offers, voice warm with pride, as he returns Black Bat’s picture to its rightful spot. 

“Seriously, Timmy, you may have a career as a detective. Or a ninja. NOBODY hides from Black Bat. Literally nobody.” Tim bites his lip, but Jason sees the way his mouth fights not to break out into a massive grin.

Instead, he just pulls out another photo. This time, though, it’s the Red Hood. 

This is a picture of him Now, Jason realizes. The picture of him as Robin had been so happy, so youthful. He isn’t sure he wants to see how Tim sees the Red Hood, to see how different they are. 

But as Tim hands over the photo with an awkward little smile, he can feel his insides knotting up. It’s like…it’s like a mirror image of the Robin photo. 

Instead of Bruce, he’s standing with Roy, as Arsenal, with one arm slug over his shoulder and the other tucking his helmet to his side, head thrown back in laughter. It’s…Christ. Christ, it feels the exact fucking same, and does Tim really see him like this?

DID he really see him like this, when he was taking this picture, before they’d ever met and he’d fed him spaghetti and soup and chili? Did Gotham see the Red Hood like this, happy and laughing and not…not fucked up and rage-filled and dangerous? 

Jason tears his eyes away from the photograph to look at Tim. “Timmy…this is…” Tim clears his throat and looks away, flushing. 

“Um, you can…you can keep it, if you want to.” He mumbles, refusing to meet Jason’s eyes. Something blooms in his chest. He WANTS to, he WANTS to keep this photograph, but…

“Are you sure, Timbo? These aren’t easy to develop.” Tim nods firmly, though, despite his curled-in shoulders. 

“Y-yeah. It’s yours. Besides,” he sweeps a hand towards the lockbox, “I have plenty more.” It’s…Christ, he’s really giving him one of his pictures? Jason doesn’t know much about photography, but this is color film. He’s pretty sure they’re way more work to develop, and he’s sure Tim had dozens of black-and-white pictures he could give him. 

Jason stands and walks towards the fridge, where the only thing on it is a few sticky-note reminders, and magnets the photo to the door. When he turns back around, Timmy’s blushing fiercely, but he’s also smiling real wide. 

Jack and Janet Drake probably didn’t have a single thing on their fridge. He wonders if Tim’s ever shown them any of his photographs. 

When Jason makes it back to the couch, he points to the lockbox and asks, “May I?” He really DOES wanna see all the photos in there, now that he knows how fucking amazing of a photographer the kid is. Wordlessly, Tim passes him the box. 

As gently as he can, Jason starts sliding photos up to look at them, commenting on his favorite ones. There’s pictures of Dick as Nightwing, of Barbara as Batgirl, forever ago, of Cass as Black Bat. There are pictures of him, pictures of Bruce, the odd picture of the handful of outside heroes that show up in Gotham sometimes, like Superman, Kori, Roy, Wonder Woman. 

There are even a few snaps of Babs’ new girl, Steph, back when she was Spoiler. 

Timmy’s got photos of the Sirens, too. Catwoman, Harley, Ivy, all photographed with care. A few are of the Sirens at one of their apartments, eating takeout and watching movies, or of Harley and Ivy holding hands in Robinson Park, pictures Tim’s only been able to get because he’s friends with all of them, somehow. 

And as he scans through all of Tim’s photographs, Jason starts to wonder. Timmy’s tracked and mapped all of their patrol routes, according to him. Fuck, he’s so meticulous, he’s managed to get pictures of fucking CASS. So chances are, Tim knows they always come across the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge to start. 

He’s a smart kid, and to be honest, the dominos don’t cover all that much. Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t get some of the less bat-affiliated vigilantes, like himself, who is an honest to God zombie. He probably wouldn’t know that Batgirl used to be Barbara Gordon, either. 

But…but Dick? Bruce? Cass? Even him when he was Robin. Could Timmy have figured it out at some point? It’s…it’s pretty possible, really. 

But nothing’s confirmed. At least, not until Jason frees a photograph from the very back of the lockbox, and Tim flinches. 

It’s much older, wrinkled, smaller than the others. And it’s a picture of a baby Timmy standing with Dick and his parents, the flying Graysons. 

“I, uh…” Tim stutters, his fingers twitching. “I, uh, that must’ve, um, accidentally gotten in there, I guess.” 

Timmy knows who Dick is. Or, at the very least, knows he was Robin. And Tim isn’t dumb, if Dick was Robin, then he knows who Bruce is too. Cass and Black Bat showing up in Gotham at the same time, too? Yeah. 

Tim knows. 

“When’d you figure it out, Timbers?” Jason asks quietly, staring down at the only photo of Tim himself he’s seen. Younger Tim is smiling a wide, toothy grin, with the same floppy black hair, barely coming up to Younger Dick’s knees. 

Tim swallows, staring at the carpet, twisting his hands together. 

“Timmy, I’m not mad, or anything, don’t worry. Just, how much do you know?” He swallows again, wipes his palms on his sweatpants. Fuck, that means the trembling comes next, if Jason can’t do enough damage control. 

“I, uh,” he starts, eyes still downcast, “I, uh, I was nine. Quadruple somersault.” Holy fuck, NINE years old? People have been trying to figure out who Batman is for YEARS, and some nine-year-old discovers Gotham’s biggest secret, just like that?

“Hmm? Quadruple what?” Jason prods, partly because he seriously wants to know how the fuck Timmy found out who fucking Batman was, and partly because he has no fucking clue what that is. Honestly, he’s kinda proud of himself for staying so calm and not freaking out. 

“Um, I was…I went to the Flying Graysons’ show, uh, that night. The one where…that night, you know?” Tim reaches over and lightly pulls the picture out of Jason’s hand, eyes still down, rubbing at the creases with his fingers. “Dick Grayson’s one of the only three people in the world who can do a quadruple somersault. Robin did it, once, and I remembered it.” 

Yeah, Jason knows about That Night. The night Dick’s parents had been murdered, the night Bruce Wayne just happened to be in the crowd. Apparently, there was one other important person in the crowd, and it was a small, what, three-year-old? 

A three-year-old who’d remembered one specific trick for SIX YEARS, who’d seen something traumatizing, watched two people plummet to their deaths. 

“Jesus, Tim,” Jason breathes out, breath catching in his throat. “You…I’m sorry you had to see that.” 

Tim shakes his head, grip tightening on the picture. “It…it’s okay. Had nightmares for a while, but ‘s fine now.” Were his parents even in town when it had happened, or did a nanny take him? Were his parents there when he had nightmares, like any normal toddler? Did they even know? Or care?

He decides it doesn’t matter anymore, because Jack and Janet Drake are never coming within a hundred feet of their kid ever again. 

Tim sucks in another breath and tucks the picture away. “I figured out that Dick Grayson was Robin, and Bruce Wayne was Batman. Black Bat’s his new daughter, Cassandra Cain. And, um,” he glances up at Jason with wary eyes, seeming to steel himself. “I, uh, I figured out the second Robin was, um…”

God, no fucking way. No fucking way. Holy shit, no way Tim’s that good of a fucking detective. 

“I figured out the second Robin was…he was you. Uh, Jason Todd.” Tim’s folded into himself defensively, like he expects to be hit or something, as if that isn’t the most insane revelation ever.

“Tim,” Jason says slowly, bending forward onto his knees, and Timmy tenses, “I think you might be the smartest person I’ve met in my life.” 

Disbelief floods the kid’s face and he looks up in shock. “What? Aren’t you, um, aren’t you, like, mad?” 

Mad? The fuck?

Okay, yeah, this could possibly serve to be a problem in the future, especially if there are other super geniuses running around Gotham knowing his identity, or if Tim’s ever told anyone (which Jason doubts), but right now? He’s just amazed. 

He has to let out and incredulous chuckle, and he shakes his head. “Hell no, Timmy. I’m just kind of amazed. How did you even figure that out?” He flushes red and ducks his head again, fingers twitching. “Aw, c’mon Timmy, what is it? What’s my quadruple somersault?” 

“Uh,” Tim clears his throat, hiding behind his hair. “Uh, Nightwing used to call you Jaybird sometimes. Um, he said it to you as the Red Hood and I just…did the math. Same facial structure, same, like, hair and stuff, uh, and sometimes you’ve called yourself a zombie. And after that, everything started adding up. So…”

He shakes his head, amazed. “So you just figured I came back to life. Because that Dickwad can’t stop calling me Jaybird.” 

Tim offered a half shrug, his fingers still again. “Well, this IS Gotham, so…” He snorted, rubbing a hand through his hair. 

“That’s very true, Timbo. Christ, I cannot believe you.” At the startled look in the kid’s eye, he elaborated. “Like, really, Kiddo, nine years old! And the insane knowledge of our patrol routes and safehouses, and the friendship with the Sirens, all of it! You’re just…you’re just a pretty incredible kid, Tim.” 

And now he was blushing again, but that was miles better than the about-to-be-kicked puppy looks he’d been showing. 

Jason shook his head again, not quite sure he’d totally absorbed the fact that a kid was able to figure out his super-secret identity. 

“Jesus, kid, here. Okay. Why don’t you take a shower, I have your clothes. There’s uh, there’s towels in the bathroom.” 

Tim whipped around, wide eyed. He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, okay. Um, yes please. Thank you.” 

Jason ushered him towards the bathroom, tossing a clean towel and a few pieces of clothing from the duffle in after him. Once the door was shut and the water was running. Jason collapsed onto the couch and buried his head in his hands after peeling his domino mask off. 

Wouldn’t be needing that anymore here. 

Fucking hell, he REALLY needed to call Roy and Kori. 

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	16. Chapter 16 (Tim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....I have nothing to say for myself
> 
> It's been a rough few months but I am pretty much fine, so thank you guys so much for all the sweet comments, they mean the world!

“Timmy,” the Red Hood had said, “We may have a problem.”

Tim just kind of stands there dumbly, the rag that had flown out of his hand still sitting on the floor. Jason’s looking around the now-clean apartment with an unreadable expression on his face that makes Tim’s stomach twist. 

The safehouse is CLEAN now, smells clean and looks clean and sparkles with the same absent cleanliness that Drake Manor does. Only, it isn’t Drake Manor because it feels lived in. Because the couch is squishy, the carpet is worn, the cups and plates in the cupboards are mismatched and scratched with use. It’s BETTER. 

But the Red Hood is still standing there, only now he’s looking at HIM, so Tim pulls himself out of his bleach-white thoughts as asks, “What’s wrong? What happened?” 

The Red Hood sighs and flicks his hands up in an annoyed gesture. “Well, it looks like Nightwing and Batman are 100% on your trail, Kiddo. They’re out lookin’ for you, I ran in to them searching your house.” Shit, his picture box! They’ll know, they’ll find out he knows- “Don’t worry, I was already done. I got your camera and pictures and all.” Tim literally drops his shoulders in relief, because GOD he has no clue what Batman would do if he found out. 

Wipe his mind? Kidnap him? Both?

He pushed those currently irrelevant thoughts aside and looked back down at the rag still on the floor. “Um…” What is he even supposed to say? “I cleaned?” The Red Hood snorted loudly, and pulled the duffle bag off his shoulder, setting it on the coffee table. 

“Yeah, no kidding. It looks great, Timmy, but you gotta watch your hands, Bud, look at them.” What-his hands? What about-? Tim glanced down at his hand in front of him, and crap cannoli, he’d done it again. Jeez. Sometimes when he got a little lost in cleaning, he’d forget that too many chemicals and too much scrubbing would rub them raw and make them sting. It wasn’t as if he TRIED to, he just…never noticed when it happened. 

But they’d clear up and stop hurting in a few days with no problems. It just happened sometimes, it wasn’t exactly cause for concern. “I…didn’t notice, I guess. It’s no big deal though, they’ll be fine.” The Red Hood rolled his eyes behind the domino mask, like he was being ridiculous or something. 

“Uh huh, sure. No big deal.” He sniped, prodding Tim in the back. “C’mon, I have Vaseline in the bathroom, we can tape ‘em up.” What…why?

What was he even DOING? 

Vaseline? Why did that even matter? How was that even relevant?

Tim walked to the bathroom anyways, though, and sat down on the toilet seat when Jason pointed him over to it. He still didn’t really have any clue what was happening. 

That is, until the Red Hood pulled out a massive tub of Vaseline and reached back under the sink, muttering something about wrappings. 

His hands. He was gonna wrap his hands. Tim felt a surge of…a surge of something in his chest, something warm and twisty and glowing that filled him all the way up. 

Feeling obligated, Tim said, “Hey, Hood, you really don’t have to. In like, two or three days they’ll be fine.” They would be. They were just dried out and kinda raw and stingy, in a couple of days they’d be back to normal. It was just because he had weirdly sensitive skin. 

“Look, Tim,” grunted the Red Hood, yanking a wad of white cotton out from under the sink and rolling back on the balls of his feet. “I know you aren’t used to people being concerned about you.” And that was untrue! He had Dr. Isley, and also Babs, and also Dr. Quinzel and Ms. Kyle, sometimes! But Jason waved him away and kept talking. 

“Trust me, Kiddo, I wasn’t either. When I first got in the business, I was used to being the only person ever looking out for me. But that isn’t true anymore.” 

Jason gently grabbed one of his hands out of his lap, the skin stinging a little, and started coating it in Vaseline. It immediately made the burning flesh feel better. They were quiet for a little while as the Red Hood rubbed soothing circles into his palm, and then started winding the wrappings around it, trapping the obscene amounts of petroleum jelly underneath. 

Nobody’s ever wrapped his hands before, not because of cleaning or scrapes or that time he’d accidentally burned his fingers on the stove. Tim decides that it’s…it’s quite nice, really. Not the stinging in his hands, but the fact that someone actually gives a crap about the stinging in his hands. 

“Kid, I’m saying,” the Red Hood started saying, setting down his finished first hand and grabbing the second one, “That I…I…care.” 

Oh. That’s…that’s new. That’s a new thing. 

I mean, of course TIM cares, but that’s just because he’s a weirdo who’s been following Jason Todd around for years, now. There’s no reason, really, for Jason to care about HIM. 

(There’s no reason for ANYONE to care about HIM.)

Tim doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get it. There’s no motive here, really, there’s nothing substantial. He’s delivered evidence, helped with the Angel Juice case. Cleaned. Stopped a fight with Dr. Isley. But Jason’s done…so much more for him. 

SO much more. 

The food, the pullout couch, helping stop the Angel Juice thing so his parents couldn’t keep killing people with opioids. Stealing him a duffle bag of clothes, his camera, his pictures. Right now, wrapping his stinging hands in the bathroom. 

And Tim doesn’t…he can’t comprehend this new THING, this new concept. This idea that people care for no reason at all, that they do things for no reason at all. It doesn’t make sense, yet Jason Todd, the Red Hood, his ROBIN, he TOLD him that it’s true, so is it?

Jason looked up at him, so he immediately looked away, not really knowing what to do. 

He decided to go with basic manners and cleared his throat. “T-thanks.” The Red Hood finished wrapping his hand, tucking the end into the folds of the cotton, and patting it lightly. 

He grunted, “Uh, that oughta do it, Timmers.” Sounding kinda choked in a weird way. Tim twitched his fingers, curling them inwards. 

“I, uh, thank you, Hood. Really, I…” Blood rushed to his face. What was he gonna say? Nobody’s ever lied him enough to wrap his hands before? There’s never been anyone around to fix him when he got hurt? That was freaking embarrassing, what would the Red Hood think of him then? Was he…was he really that unlovable?

“I’ve never, um,” Tim steeled himself and looked upwards to meet Jason’s gaze. “Uh, nobody’s ever really…” God, he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t even say it, because that made it so real. Jason was great, better than great, but he’d only really known him for a handful of days now. 

And he’s known his parents his whole life. So somewhere along the line, they decided he wasn’t worth caring about anymore. Who’s to say that the Red Hood comes to the same point? In a few days? Maybe a week? Why wouldn’t he?

Jason nodded a little jerkily and patted both of his hands again, before pushing up out of his squat and stepping to the side. Tim took it as his cue to stand from his seat on the toilet lid and move back into the living area of the safehouse, rubbing his newly-bundled hands together and staring towards the coffee table, where the duffle bag sat.

A beat or two later, the Red Hood joined him, and nodded towards the bag Tim was eyeing. 

“Why don’tcha open that up, stick your toothbrush in the bathroom and all? I stuck it in a Ziploc, don’t worry.” 

That was good, that was ideal. His toothbrush needed to not be gross. He shuffled towards the bag, unzipping it and fishing around until he found his toothbrush and toothpaste. As promised, the brush was sealed in a brand new Ziploc baggie, free of any lint or dirt. 

“Thanks, Hood.” He mumbles, before moving back into the bathroom and lining up the toothbrush and toothpaste parallel to the trim on the bathroom walls. Once he makes it back, he digs around his clothes to pull out first the lockbox of Batman photographs and then his camera, avoiding an unsurprising collection of his parents’ most valuable artifacts. With no film, he can’t take any pictures, but he still breathes a sigh of relief once he’s holding it again. 

God, he doesn’t like not having his camera. One of the only gifts from his parents that he cares about, it’s his longest companion. 

They’d shipped it to him when he was seven, from Sri Lanka, two and a half weeks after his birthday. The camera and several reels of film. He’d taken dozens of pictures each day, reading books on photography and watching videos on technique, and then biking all the way across Gotham to have them developed. 

It was familiar, every scratch and groove. Tim slowly sat on the couch, running his hands over the comforting casing, drawing a fingernail through each familiar trench. 

“’S that the camera you take your nighttime pictures with?” The Red Hood asks from behind him. Tim startles, but then turns to look at Jason over his shoulder and nods. He resumes checking over the camera, running a finger over the shutter, checking the lens, adjusting the zoom.

It isn’t like he expects it to NOT be in good shape or anything, but still. 

Distractedly, he tells Jason, “Uh, yeah. I…I like to develop the photos.” The familiar wash of his darkroom, the soothing red glow, the vague scent of developer chemicals. He’s going to miss it. “I, uh, built a darkroom when I was eight. It was a Christmas present.” 

Well, technically closer to New Years. He’d sent his parents an email before Christmas, asking if he could please convert one of the larger closets into a darkroom as a Christmas gift. Weeks later, Janet had emailed a simple ‘Yes.’ Nothing else. 

No ‘Merry Christmas,’ no ‘Sorry we weren’t home,’ no ‘We love you!’ Just ‘yes.’ 

Tim hadn’t cared much, though. He’d spent every day of the next week constructing it. Ripping out the shelves that lined the wall, installing a desk, filling a cabinet with chemicals, stringing up lines and clips for his pictures to dry on. 

It had been a really giant closet, once upon a time, but now it was his safe space. 

“That’s really cool, Timbo. Seriously.” Jason says, still behind him. There’s some shuffling, and then the Red Hood sits down next to him on the couch. 

It makes something warm bloom fiercely in his chest, something bubbling and happy. Dr. Isley tells him his photography is cool, fawns over the few pictures he’ll show her, but he doesn’t see her…ALL the time. And he can’t show BARBARA, she’d tell Dick Grayson right away. 

Tim looks over at the Red Hood sitting next to him looking vaguely interested. He doesn’t wanna get all ramble-y and annoy him, but…but he IS talking about it, sitting on the couch. So maybe… “It’s…it’s kinda my favorite thing. The pictures you take are just so much…er…” Tim trails off. 

He doesn’t wanna sound all pretentious and stupid. And it IS kinda dumb. How is he supposed to put it into words? 

He likes how it looks, he likes the slightly fuzzed lines and the heavier shadows. He likes developing them, likes the acidic scent of developer, likes the red lights that shine over his hands, his arms. Likes the quiet solitude of his darkroom, the perfect rows of drying photographs, likes sliding the negatives into the lining of the walls to hide them. 

He likes the rawness of film photography, the effort put into each picture, much more than the endless stream of digitals you can take. He likes developing the few COLOR photos he takes too, likes how much longer it is, likes the precise process, the unchanging list of instructions. 

It’s orderly, perfect, beautiful. But how is he supposed to just say all of that? It’s weird, it’s strange. 

But the Red Hood shoots him a muted smile and prompts him to keep talking, for some unfathomable reason. “What? So much what?” 

“Um,” he stutters out, trying to figure out a…a non-weird way to say it. “Um, when you shoot digital, you have unlimited frames, you can delete the blurry ones whenever, they’re always right there. But, uh, when you shoot like this, uh, you only have so much film? And every picture has to be, like, individually developed, and they all just feel more, uh, important? Even, like, the blurry ones.”

He liked the blurry ones, really. He wasn’t especially proud of them, and they weren’t especially beautiful, but they showed…they showed the Bats or the Sirens or the Rogues more dynamically. It made them seem more real, more fleshed out, more like living, imperfect people and less like comic books heroes, where every shot was a glamour shot.

Tim shook his head, trying to ground himself again. “Uh, sorry, I know that sounds stupid.” God, couldn’t he just be more normal? Shoot digital, have real hobbies, have real friends? 

The Red Hood shook his head, though, curls bouncing. “No, seriously, Timmy, that makes sense. Like, there’s more time put into every picture, so ALL of them are good, just because of that?” Yeah. Yeah, exactly, exactly that. Tim doesn’t know why Jason Todd, HIS Robin, would care at all about his dumb photography, but for whatever weird reason, he seems too. 

Tim nods, leaning forward to set his camera down on the table. “Y-yeah.” 

The Red Hood tilts his chin up towards Tim’s lockbox of pictures that’s still sitting on the coffee table. “Are ALL of your pictures in that thing, or just the Batman ones?” So…is he being humored? Is Jason freaking Todd actually interested? After a moment, Tim figures it doesn’t really make any difference, and answers him.

“Um, no, I uh, I made a photo album of the other ones, once.” Yeah, he’d made it when he was what, eight? To show Jack and Janet, back when he still looked forward to them coming home. They’d given it back to him the next day, saying it was “very interesting, Timothy.” 

Tim would bet they had never even opened the cover. Instead of dwelling on it, he leans forward and sets the box in his lap. “All the good ones are in here anyways.” 

He doesn’t know what else to say, so instead he just stares at the metal lid, an ugly greyish-green color. “I didn’t grab a key for that thing, Buddy.” Jason says. That’s stupid, he’s the Red Hood, he could probably pick the stupid padlock in seconds. 

But he’s not the ONLY one who could pick the lock. Tim’s been doing it for years now. 

“I tossed the key ages ago. I only ever use paperclips, just in case.” It’s really nothing to be proud of, not next to Jason Todd’s achievements. But Jason just grins at him, and starts fishing around in his pants pocket, unearthing two shiny silver paperclips, already bent out.

“Will you show me some of your favorites?” Jason’s got this goofy grin on his face, and…and he ACTUALLLY wants to see all of Tim’s creepy photos. After a beat, he nods and takes the two clips. 

Tim rushes through picking the lock, trying not to go too slow and embarrass himself. After a handful of long seconds, there’s a satisfying click and he slides the lock off, setting it gingerly on the coffee table. He opens the lid to the lockbox and the sight of all of his neatly ordered photographs instantly fills him with calm. 

He keeps all of them ordered by date and separate within seasons as specific people. Like, winter of this year has a section for Ivy and the Sirens, Batman, and everyone else. Nightwing only comes to Gotham for a visit every so often, his Black Bat photos are few and far between, the Red Hood had been gone for the first few months, and he rarely actually focuses on photographing the Rogues. 

It just…makes sense. All of it. It all makes sense. 

But the Red Hood wants to see his ‘favorites.’ Well, he sure isn’t gonna show him the most sentimental pictures he has, the crappy ones with the Sirens at movie night or anything, no. He’s gonna show him his absolute best shots, the ones he’s proudest of. 

Chronological order. His very first really amazing picture was from when the Robin R was still worn by Dick Grayson. It just capture HIM, captured his smile, his fighting style, his bad puns, everything. It didn’t just LOOK like Dick Grayson’s Robin, it FELT like him too. 

Tim flips through one of is very first ‘Robin’ sections and frees the photograph. He’d even taken it on color film, and the contrast had just been…stunning. 

He hands it over to Jason carefully, trying not to smudge it, because all of his negatives are jumbled in the walls and he’d never be able to find this specific one again. 

Tim’s carefully watching Jason’s face, carefully watching his expression. If he thinks it sucks or something, Tim isn’t sure what he’d do. Or if he thinks it’s super weird, super creepy? No clue. 

As of right now, he has it on good authority that the Red Hood actually…likes it. Which is nuts. It’s a dream come true for Tim, seriously, because this is one of his HEROES. His ROBIN. When Jason lets out a long, quiet whistle, he absolutely seeps with pride. Jason Todd, ROBIN, the Red Hood, is…impressed, he’s pretty sure. 

Nothing could top that. 

Nothing could top that except for when he actually SAYS “Wow, Kiddo, this is incredible. Like, seriously, this is amazing.” He ducks his face down towards his knees to try and force the blood to stop rushing to his face. The Red Hood just sounds so…genuine. None of the thoughts Tim’s having are coherent, all disjointed and choppy and GOD, Jason Todd likes this picture.

“It was one of the first, like, good ones I took.” He murmurs hoarsely, and Jason gently passes the photograph back for him to slide back into the lockbox.

“Can I see more?” Yes, Tim wants to shout. Look at ALL of them, go through every single one, because I NEVER get to show these to anyone, because I’m so PROUD of them, all of them, and I never get to show a soul. 

And Tim’s known the Red Hood for a few days, a handful of days, and he knows more of Tim’s secrets than anyone else in the world. He knows about his parents, the violence, the Angel Juice. He knows about Dr. Isley, Dr. Quinzel, Ms. Kyle. He knows about the Batman photographs. 

Wordlessly, Tim extracts his very favorite picture of Jason Todd as Robin #2. 

It’s a thank you gift, right now, to the Red Hood. And even if he doesn’t know that Tim knows that the Red Hood and the second Robin are one and the same, it’s still a thank you. 

“This is my favorite one, I think.” He murmurs as he gently passes the picture over, all quiet like he’s at a church service or something. The Red Hood nods, enamored. 

Back when he had taken the picture, the photo of Robin making the actual BATMAN cackle with laughter, Tim had never even dreamed of showing it to Jason Todd. Never even considered it. But here he is. 

Here he is, and he’s SEEN the smirk in this picture again, seen it when the boy behind it is talking to HIM, wrapping his hands, making him dinner, breakfast. Jason Todd had DIED, he’d died. Tim had woken up one morning and Robin, HIS Robin, had been dead. His parents were home, and all three of them had gone to the funeral, Jack in a somber suit and Janet in a tasteful black dress. 

He’d cried, two days later once his parents had left. Curled up between his bed and the wall and bawled, because it wasn’t just a hero that was dead, it was a boy. A boy like him, a boy who went to school and had friends and told jokes that could make Batman himself laugh. 

It’d been different after that. Batman went out and Robin didn’t. No more flashes of color, no more peals of laughter, no more snarky one-liners. Just black, black, black, all along the Gotham skyline. Nightwing came home, after that, stopped Bruce Wayne from getting too violent. 

Batgirl had vanished, too. Tim had never been able to figure out who she was, either. He supposed it didn’t matter after all, because she was gone, gone like Robin, gone like Jason Todd. He hadn’t even bothered to look for deaths of any redhead women in Gotham, too wrapped up in the idea that his Robin was gone. 

After several long moments, the Red Hood clears his throat and hands the picture back to him, eyes glazed. A thank you present. 

“Thanks.” He mumbles, sliding it away. “Um, I don’t have many pictures of Black Bat because she’s, like, practically invisible, but this one’s my best, I think.”

Black Bat was a FORCE, that was certain. No other Gotham vigilante could measure up, and she hadn’t appeared all that long ago. It wasn’t hard to connect Bruce Wayne’s new daughter with Black Bat, but Tim had no clue where she came from.

“Damn, Timbers, I’m just impressed you managed to get any pictures at ALL of her!” Jason says, taking the picture from him. 

Yeah, okay, he’s pretty proud of that too. She was still just a RUMOR in Gotham right now, with only a few blurry shots online. “No offense, I think she might be the best. Until a few months ago, I wasn’t even sure she existed.” He says, feeling a little brave. Yeah, Cassandra Cain-Wayne might be the best, but Robin’s still Tim’s favorite. 

Jason just snorts, examining the picture casually. “Yeah, none taken. She’s definitely the best. Beats Batman every time they spar, it’s nuts.” 

He didn’t know THAT. Gosh, she was so cool. He can’t even imagine being fifteen and fighting crime like that, taking down criminals and doing backflips across rooftops. His athletic skills consist of being really good at climbing fire escapes and the occasional messy leap across a particularly narrow alleyway. 

All of his Black Bat photos were black and white. There wasn’t much color to her suit anyways, so he didn’t miss too much. It wasn’t the Robin suit or anything. 

“I, um, I got lucky and figured out where her stakeout was, one night, and I managed to hide on the roof next to her.” He explains once Jason hands the photo back. There weren’t very many pictures of her that he had, and most of the ones that he HAD managed to shoot were from far away, or kinda blurry. 

He’d gotten lucky that he had managed to figure out the case she was working, and the gotten luckier that he’d managed to guess correctly which building she would be staking out. 

“Seriously, Timmy, you may have a career as a detective. Or a ninja. NOBODY hides from Black Bat. Literally nobody.” He bites his lip, forcing down a grin. He doesn’t want Jason to think he’s getting conceited or anything, but still. It’s a compliment, a big one, a compliment from Jason Todd.

Tim’s not used to that. 

To deflect, Tim pulls out a picture of Jason now, as the Red Hood. It isn’t his absolute favorite of Jason Todd, even though it’s up there, but it’s sentimental. 

He passes along his picture. There’s dozens upon dozens of Red Hood action shots that he’s got, and about four or five that are favorites, ones with harsh lines and violent reds and lots of cruel-looking diagonals. But this is the happiest one. 

Arsenal’s with him, in the picture, and the Red Hood’s laughing, happy, carefree. THIS is the Jason Todd that Tim’s come to know, kind of, over the past few days. The one who cooks and goes to steal his toothbrush and lends him his couch and…and who held him while he cried himself to sleep, and then tucked him in. 

Tim watches Jason, watches the way his eyes get a little moist, the way he grips the edges of the picture a little tighter, the little lilt of a smile that tugs his mouth. “Timmy…this is…” 

He decides, then, that he doesn’t need this picture anymore, because Jason Todd’s right HERE. Tim’s never given away a photograph to someone before, but he’s also never cried himself to sleep of someone’s lap either.

“Um, you can…you can keep it, if you want to.” He mumbles, turning away to try and stave off the blush. Jason makes a little noise in the back of his throat, all surprised. It’s strange, how he isn’t even a little concerned about a rejection. It’s new, a new feeling, one he isn’t used to at all. 

“Are you sure, Timbo? These aren’t easy to develop.” Jason sounds kind of like someone’s just choked him, but sincere. It isn’t a rejection, not at all, and it makes the nod that Tim gives him completely firm and certain. 

“Y-yeah. It’s yours. Besides, I have plenty more.” None of them are quite so happy, but Tim no longer needs the picture to remind him that the Red Hood is just a teenage boy anymore. 

Suddenly, the Red Hood stands, and Tim can feel his heart drop in his chest. Did he…overstep? Do something wrong? 

But no, instead, he strolls across the main room and into the kitchen, all the way to the fridge…and Tim understands now, as the Red Hood sticks the photograph right to the door. 

His mom and dad didn’t have a single thing on the fridge, no takeout menus or school photos or coupons or notes or business cards or magnets or anything. It was a stainless steel beast that was wiped of fingerprints every week and held maybe three or four items on just one shelf. 

And now…Jason Todd is sticking a picture he took on his fridge, and there’s no stopping the massive grin that splits his face. It’s stupid, a stupid smile, a stupid thing to care this much about, but families on TV always had cluttered fridges with ugly magnets and terrible artwork and he’s just always been so JEALOUS. 

He doesn’t really need to be jealous anymore. 

Jason sits back down on the couch and asks, “May I?” as he points to the lockbox. He really just feels like he’s gonna burst, and it isn’t glee, or joy, or anything. It’s unidentifiable, brand new, but it’s good. It’s a good feeling. Tim hands the lockbox to Jason, curling his now-empty fingers around the edge of the couch. 

There’s a white noise in his head again, but this time it’s different. It’s not sharp and staticky and coupled with vague panic, it’s…nice. It’s warm and soothing and just happy. It is this white noise that Tim lets himself get lost in as the Red Hood peruses the lockbox. 

Sometimes Jason will stop at a picture and say something, maybe about how it’s a good shot or maybe about how he likes the color or maybe about how ‘doesn’t Nightwing look so stupid in his dumb spandex?!’ 

And it’s fine. It’s good, it’s a good thing, it’s a good thing and oh god, is Tim happy about it. At least, he’s happy about it until Jason moves towards the back of the lockbox and frees a smaller, wrinkled photograph. 

Crap. Crap crap crap, Tim had totally forgotten that that was in there! 

Jason was gonna look at it and immediately see that he’d connected Dick Grayson with Robin. He was a detective, a good one, there’s no way he would just let it go. 

“I, uh…” He stutters out, feeling sweat pool in his palms. This was it, this was the end. He was getting mind wiped, maybe even shot, maybe exiled from Gotham. “I, uh, that must’ve, um, accidentally gotten in there, I guess.” 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, no WAY was the Red Hood falling for a flimsy excuse like that. No WAY. He was the literal RED HOOD, and now Tim was gonna get killed for LYING too. 

He couldn’t look up, he couldn’t look at the Red Hood, see his anger, his rage. Tim was done, he was done, it was all over. His absolute biggest secret, the one thing he’d never told anyone his entire life, spilled within seconds to a literal vigilante, just because Tim had been careless. 

God he was so STUPID. 

Why would he leave that picture in there? Why would he do that? Sure, keeping them all together was nice, but why couldn’t he have foreseen how easily someone would make the connection

“When’d you figure it out, Timbers?” Asks the Red Hood, almost in a whisper. Probably seething, probably furious, probably already plotting how he’d get rid of him, a liability. 

And it had been nice, these past few days, seriously. It had been nice and Tim had…he had let himself get complacent, seriously. He’d let himself get comfortable and he’d let himself get lost in a different type of white noise, and this was all his fault. 

He twists his hands together, a vain attempt to mask the tremors that threaten to start running through them. 

“Timmy,” Jason starts, and why does he not sound angry? That doesn’t make any sense at all. “I’m not mad, or anything, don’t worry.” Wh…what? Why wouldn’t he be mad? Why not? “Just, how much do you know?” 

An interrogation? Is this gonna be like good cop/bad cop except…with no bad cop? Tim wipes his hands on Jason’s sweatpants that he’s still wearing. Well, might as well just tell the truth at this point. Maybe…maybe they won’t wipe his whole mind?

“I, uh, I, uh, I was nine. Quadruple somersault.” He manages to force out, tongue all heavy in his mouth. Tim wants to leave; he wants his darkroom back at home. 

Tim forces himself to bathe his mind in red light, in a red glow, in a dark room, in a sharp stench of chemicals, of developer. Rows and rows of neatly ordered pictures on the walls, drying. Bleach-clean marble floors with no wall lamps on, a total lack of dust, an endless expanse of emptiness. 

He forces his ears to open, forces himself to listen, forces himself not to start breathing choppily. 

The Red Hood’s talking again, trying to get him to say more, divulge more information, and he still doesn’t sound too upset. 

“Um, I was…I went to the Flying Graysons’ show, uh, that night. The one where…” A flash, a scream, two brightly colored shapes falling, falling, falling. A thud. Red. Another scream. “-that night, you know?” Almost unconsciously, he reaches over towards the Red Hood and tugs the photo free of Jason’s lax grip. 

He’s carried this photo around for years, ten of them. Tim remembers almost everything about the day, it had been one of the happiest of his life, up until the trapeze show. Both of his parents had held his hands, walked him around the circus booths, let him try cotton candy, funnel cake. 

His dad, in a blue polo shirt and khakis, and his mom, in a tasteful day dress and large sunglasses. He remembers her lips were bright red with lipstick, her dress was green. It was the most casual Janet Drake had ever dressed. Tim rips himself free of the image of a sunny day and brightly colored tents to finish, “Dick Grayson’s one of the only three people in the world who can do a quadruple somersault. Robin did it, once, and I remembered it.” 

“Jesus, Tim. You…I’m sorry you had to see that.” Jason says. Tim still doesn’t look at him, because he doesn’t want to see a furious face behind the words that sound…nice. Sympathetic. 

He shakes his head and holds the photo a little tighter. Dick Grayson’s smiling so wide in it, and he is too. It’s stupid, it’s all stupid. “It…it’s okay. Had nightmares for a while, but ‘s fine now.” 

He’d had nightmares for years, long ones too. Dreams filled with the Flying Graysons’ screams, filled with the broken bodies on the floor and the blood pooling around them. 

Back when he was three, four maybe, he would still slide out of bed and pad down the cold hallways to his parents’ room, knock on the massive mahogany door. After the first two times, they’d stopped answering, but he’d held onto hope, as a four year old, that one night his mom would wing open the door in her nightdress, eyes tired, and let him crawl between them in their bed. 

It never happened again, not after those first two nights. Tim suspects that they’d just gotten sick of having a kid, at some point. Just gotten bored of having a child. 

He slides the picture back into place. Tim’s tired of remembering that night, and he should probably finish spilling his biggest secret to Jason Todd. “I figured out that Dick Grayson was Robin, and Bruce Wayne was Batman. Black Bat’s his new daughter, Cassandra Cain. And, um,” Finally, he looks up at the Red Hood, even if it’s brief. He doesn’t look angry yet, just disbelieving, but that’s sure about to change. “I, uh, I figured out the second Robin was, um…I figured out the second Robin was…he was you. Uh, Jason Todd.”

He folds himself down, tries to become a smaller target. He doesn’t think the Red Hood’s gonna smack him or anything, but he’s waiting for the waves of anger, the festering rage. Tim braces himself, but it doesn’t come. 

“Tim,” Next to him, the Red Hood bends forward and braces his arms on his knees. He tenses, waiting for the yelling. “I think you might be the smartest person I’ve met in my life.” 

That was not even close to what he was expecting. Tim looks up, eyes wide, and can’t stop himself from blurting out, “What? Aren’t you, um, aren’t you, like, mad?” 

The Red Hood chuckles, and Tim’s struggling to keep up here, because where is the anger? Where is the rage he expected? “How did you even figure that out?” Jason asks, and Tim flushes, because it’s dumb. “Aw, c’mon Timmy, what is it? What’s my quadruple somersault?” 

It’s stupid, it’s a stupid thing that gave it away. 

“Uh,” He clears his throat and makes his best attempt at hiding his face. “Uh, Nightwing used to call you Jaybird sometimes. Um, he said it to you as the Red Hood and I just…did the math. Same facial structure, same, like, hair and stuff, uh, and sometimes you’ve called yourself a zombie. And after that, everything started adding up. So…”

Dick Grayson and Jason Todd had been brothers, and ‘Jaybird’ had been a nickname, a special one. Tim just hadn’t been able to see Dick Grayson giving away the nickname of his dead younger brother to anyone else. 

But Jason Todd HAD died, that much had been clear. Tim had studied the Red Hood for weeks afterwards, trying to make his theory make sense. All the stupid death jokes, all the zombie jokes, the nicknames, the fighting styles, the hair, the body, the skin tone, the tension with the rest of the Bats, it all just added up, in the end. 

The Red Hood’s shaking his head, and if he hasn’t gotten mad yet…will he? “So you just figured I came back to life. Because that Dickwad can’t stop calling me Jaybird.” 

Honestly, Jason sounds kind of…amused? He shrugs a little bit, the ball that had tightened and tangled in his chest starting to loosen. “Well, this IS Gotham, so…” 

The Red Hood snorts, and yeah, somehow, inconceivably, he’s amused.

“That’s very true, Timbo. Christ, I cannot believe you.” Crap, did he maybe get it wrong? IS he angry? But Jason keeps talking with a minute shake of his head. “Like, really, Kiddo, nine years old! And the insane knowledge of our patrol routes and safehouses, and the friendship with the Sirens, all of it! You’re just…you’re just a pretty incredible kid, Tim.” 

The blood that rushes to his face is not even a fraction of enough to display what he’d actually feeling. It’s a tornado, a hurricane, maybe. He was scared, sad, scared again, relieved, and now…what? It’s confusing, all of it, immensely. 

The Red Hood shook his head again in amazement, Tim thinks is what it is. He wonders what happens now, but only for a moment. 

“Jesus, kid, here. Okay. Why don’t you take a shower, I have your clothes. There’s uh, there’s towels in the bathroom.” 

A shower…a shower! He skips over the fact that the Red freakin’ Hood actually washed his clothes, instead spluttering out, “Uh, yeah, okay. Um, yes please. Thank you.” 

Shower. Yes, a shower, oh thank GOD. Tim feels literally DISGUSTING right now, with greasy hair in sweaty clothes. He hates having to go more than a day without a shower or without changing. HATES it so very much. 

Jason stood from the couch and shooed him towards the bathroom. He grabbed a towel and pulled a handful of his clothes from the duffle, setting them on the toilet. Tim turned the water on as the door shut behind him, closed his eyes, and let the hot droplets spill down his back. 

He was in deep now. 

Crap.   
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	17. Chapter 17 (Jason)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha remember the good old days when I had an update schedule? This is my apology for my vanishing, it's all new content and the end of the second 'part' of the story :) 
> 
> So 've never written a fic before, and keeping track of all the characters is pretty nuts, so Roy and Kori were never intended to be major players in this story (maybe in the future when I get braver though!). Everybody really wanted that phone call though, so I wrote it in, but please u guys, leave Roy and Kori for a future oneshot, I am doing my best here. 
> 
> Enjoy!

While he was making grilled pimento cheese and tomato basil sandwiches, Jason FINALLY called Roy, and, by extension, Kori. Tim had just gotten in the shower, so he probably had a good ten minutes to update the Outlaws on this…new…development. 

He dialed Roy’s number from memory as he tossed some butter in a pan and turned the stove on. Oh boy, this probably wasn’t going to go over incredibly well. 

Roy picked up on the third ring as Jason was pulling out bread and cheese. 

“Y’ello Jay! What’s up?” Jason sighed, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder and fishing a tomato out of the fruit bowl. 

“Hey, Roy. So, uh, I’ve kinda got a situation over here.” Roy sobered over the phone quickly, and he could hear shuffling, probably as he was summoning Kori into whatever room he was in. 

“Y’need us to come down?” He asked, much more serious, and Jason sighed again, now slicing the tomato. They had a code, the Outlaws, a way of saying things, of doing things. A situation meant something serious but not life-threatening, something more personal. 

Usually, Jason’s situations involved the Bats, mainly Bruce and Dickwad. Usually, they sucked ass, too. Usually, they involved the pit, involved his pit rage. Not this time though. 

“Nah,” he answered, trying to sound casual enough that Roy and Kori knew he meant it. “I just, uh, got a little mixed up with something. Remember that Angel Juice case I was telling you about last week?” He started spreading pimento cheese on each slice of bread. 

“Uh, yeah, sure. Opioids, right? Hey, Kori’s here now too.” 

“Hello, Jason!” Said Kori faintly over the line. 

“Hey, Kori. And yeah, well, I finally figured out who was running it.” Roy grunted and there was some more shuffling. Jason started spreading diced tomato bits over the cheese. 

“Well, who was running it? Is,” there was a clatter and a muffled curse. “Shit, Jay, does it have to do with T-” 

“No, no.” He rushed to correct himself as he pulled basil leaves out of the fridge. Of course, they’d think it had to do with Talia and the League, he was kinda stalling, dragging it out. But hey, how was he supposed to tell his two best friends he’d gone and taken charge of a child? He was as mentally unstable as they come, and Roy and Kori knew that. 

“No, guys look,” he let out a sigh, pausing his delicate placement of the now-chopped basil to run a hand over his face and adjust the phone. “Okay, it turns out the ringleaders of the whole shebang are these Gotham hotshots, real elite, the Drakes. And um,” Jason steeled himself against the silence from the other end of the line. “Their thirteen-year-old kid kinda…turned ‘em in. To me.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, and Kori said something unintelligible to Roy. He cleared his throat. “Jay, the kid came to YOU about it? The hell?” He sounded a little on edge, and really, Jason couldn’t blame him. 

He couldn’t. 

He was volatile, prone to anger, dangerous. Both of them knew him well, better than anyone else on the planet, really, and they both knew he was always out to protect kids. So they both knew it had something to do with the kid, the situation, and he couldn’t blame them for assuming something bad had happened. 

Jason plopped the sandwiches in the pan full of sizzling butter and fished a spatula out of a drawer. “Tim Drake, that’s his name. And, uh, he’s…” Jason sighed, finally plucking the phone out from between his ear and shoulder, one hand still holding the spatula. “Right, well, he’s showering in my safehouse right now. He showed up a few days ago with a bag of evidence and a bunch of bruises, I made him dinner, now he’s showering in my safehouse and sleeping on the pullout.” 

From the clatter and the spew of cursing and then Kori’s admonishments on the other end, Roy had dropped the phone. 

“Jason, man,” Roy breathed over the line, once he’d picked it up again. “What the ever-loving FUCK?” 

Yeah, that about summed it up. He cleared his throat and poked at the sandwiches, waiting for the cheese to start to melt before he flipped them. 

“Yeah. Um, yeah. I know.” There was a bit more muffled cursing, and then some shuffling, and then, oh thank god, Kori. 

“You do not want Tim Drake to know your true name, yes?” She asked in her perfect, calm, steady voice. God bless Koriand’r, but also, Roy might actually shoot him with an arrow through the phone in a second. Jason winced, finally flipping one of the sandwiches. 

“Uh, yeah, about that. He figured out who everyone was when he was nine. So, um, bright side?” Kori didn’t even say anything, just handed the phone back over to Roy, who proceeded to cuss him deaf. 

“Jesus FUCK Jason, What the fuck? What the…fuck! Shit! Fucking shit titty fucker bitch ass FUCK! What the fuck is in your Wheaties, Jay? What the fuck do they even fucking FEED you in Gotham?” He chuckled a little breathlessly, flipping the second sandwich and shaving a bit more butter into the pan. 

“Yeah. Shit, Roy, Kori. Yeah. I uh…yeah, it’s kinda one big shitshow over here right now.” Roy took a nice deep breath on the other end of the line, and mumbled something to Kori, who was probably patting his arm comfortingly. 

“Okay. Okay, Jay, tell us what happened.” Fuck, he should really consider maybe like, trying CBD. Meditation, maybe? Yoga? All three of them should, really. He took a deep breath, huffing a half-laugh. 

“Right, okay, so this kid shows up at my safehouse with a shit ton of evidence, covered in all these fucking bruises, says he’s been collecting evidence against his parents for four years. I didn’t really know what to do so I made him spaghetti.”

Roy snorted on the other end, and Jason ignored him, continuing. “So, he leaves that night, and the NEXT night, after I blow up the fucking drug lab, I find him sleeping behind this goddamn DUMPSTER and-”

He stopped talking abruptly, forcing himself to breathe, forcing the green fuzz to recede. Timmy’s still in the shower, the walls aren’t exactly thick, he needs to keep his voice down. He can’t lose it now, needs to keep the pit under control. 

“Right, and, I brought him back to my safehouse, made him shower and crash on the couch. Fuckin’ vanishes the next morning, so I work the case and decide to go look for him later, but THEN Oracle calls me in for a Poison Ivy slash Harley Quinn attack, and guess who’s fuckin’ best pals with Poison fucking Ivy.” 

Jason could hear Kori’s faint gasp on the other end, and Roy murmured a soft, “fuck, man.” Tim had to be almost done with his shower at this point, he thought, plating up the two sandwiches, so he had to wrap this up soon. 

“So, yeah, anyways, I bring him back here and tell him the pullout’s his. The Bats are looking for him, I’m sure his shitass parents are too, and I’m about to feed him lunch cuz he’s skinny as fuck. And he knows just about everything about every single one of the Bats, patrol routes, safehouses, fighting styles, the works. ‘S got photos of fucking Black Bat and everything.”

Roy let out a long, shaky breath, and he can hear Kori’s muffled hum. “Shit, Jay. Shit.”

Jason sighed as he plunked the two plates on the counter. The water shut off. “Yeah. Yeah, guys, I gotta go, I just…” 

“Yeah, man we know.” Roy cut him off. Of course they knew, he knew they knew. Roy and Kori were…well, closer than family. “Listen, Jay, you need anything and you call us, a’ight? And if the pit flares up…” 

He grabbed a few napkins and started filling two glasses of water. “I know, I know. I’ll, uh, I’ll keep you guys updated, I guess.” There was more shuffling on the other end. 

Roy cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, you do that. Talk to ya later, Jason.” 

“Farwell, Jason!” Called Kori faintly. He smiled, just a little. His friends were beyond friends, beyond family. They were…they were the Outlaws and he…loved them both. Yeah, that was the right word. It was heavy, sure, but it fit. 

“Bye, guys.” He said, one more time, before snapping the phone closed. 

Jason slipped it into his pocket just as Tim came shuffling out of the bathroom, wet hair sticking up at odd angles, wearing a massive Star Trek t-shirt and track shorts. He really did look like a little nerd kitten, if not for the massive fucking bruise that still filled half his face. 

Every time he saw that thing, he had to physically fight not to plunge outta the window and hunt Jack Drake’s head. What kind of asshole feels they have a fucking right to hit their kid? Their tiny, adorable, brilliant, nerd-kitten kid? 

Ooooh was Jason gonna enjoy shooting that bastard, when the time came. There was a small niggle of guilt, because, yeah, Timmy was gonna lose his dad, but that glaring bruise overshadowed whatever guilt he felt. 

Tim rubbed at his face a little bit, wrinkling his eyebrows at the two plates on the counter. “You…made lunch?” Jason chuckled, sliding into one of the chairs and picking up his still sizzling sandwich. 

“Yeah, ‘f course, Timmy. Eat up, they’re pimento cheese tomato basil.” He awkwardly climbed into one of the seats behind the counter. 

“Thank you, uhm…” He seemed to be fishing for something, and after a few heartbeats, Jason understood. 

“Just Jason’s fine, Kiddo.” Tim glanced at him, a little wide-eyed, and then nodded abruptly. 

“Thanks, Jason.” There was something weirdly warm and fuzzy welling behind his ribs, so he elected to ignore it by taking a whopping bite of the drippy sandwich. Fucking delicious, as usual. Pimento cheese grilled cheeses were always winners. 

From the corner of his eye, he watched Timmy chow down as well, cheese dribbling down his chin and diced tomato dropping out of the back. 

“’S really good!” He mumbled around the sandwich, absolutely plowing through it, and Jason couldn’t’ help but smile into his own grilled cheese. 

Apparently, Timmy COULD eat, which meant there was hope yet for him to develop some healthy eating habits. Also, sitting at the counter in a massive nerd shirt and shorts, eating a grilled cheese with happy eyes, he finally looked like a regular stupid kid, even if Tim really was so far from regular or stupid. 

He didn’t look like a supergenius hacker or the son of two drug lords or Poison Ivy’s BFF, he looked like a kid. A kid who rode his bike in the park, talking shit about his math teacher with his friends. A kid who went to the arcade on the weekends and who played video games at sleepovers that his parents said he was too young to own. 

Tim had probably never managed to have that, because of Jack and Janet motherfucking Drake. Because he was too brilliant for his own good, because he was a secret vigilante stalker, because he collected a shit ton of evidence for Jason that would take down his own family. 

But hey, if making the kid grilled cheese and letting him sleep on the pullout and stealing clothes for him was what Jason needed to do to let him be a kid, even if only for a little bit, to let him have the childhood that he himself had never really managed, then Jason would do it. 

For now, at least. 

Christ, he really did have no clue where the fuck this was going. 

No clue at all. 

After lunch, they got back to work on the Angel Juice case. 

Originally, Jason was just gonna sit the kid down with a book or something and get into planning his next few moves, but Tim insisted (or more like quietly and awkwardly stated) that he could help. Which, holy fuck, he was right about. 

Timmy was a beast at research, ripping right through all of the evidence that was already neatly categorized, thanks to him. About an hour in, Jason figured he’d better stop and tell Tim about his moves against Drake Industries already. 

“Uh, hey Timmy,” he started, setting down the photographs he’d been scanning. Tim’s head jerked up from the spreadsheets that he was staring at. “So, I uh, I blew your parents drug lab sky high, a few nights ago.” 

The kid didn’t seem all that surprised though, just nodding. “I saw it on the news at the library.” His hands fidgeted a little bit in his lab, and he ducked his head a little. “Uhm, thanks. For that.” 

Was the library where he’d been spending all his free time? Jason knew Tim went often, that was where he’d learned his sick Matrix skills after all, but it made sense for that to be where he had been hiding out.

Jason also knew that Babs worked at one of the three Gotham public libraries, the main one, if he remembered correctly. Was…was that the one that Tim frequented?

Shit! They might even know each other! 

Did they? Tim hadn’t known Batgirl’s ID, and it might be a bit suspicious if he asked if Tim knew some random library chick. The kid was way too smart to not make some sort of connection. 

He shook his head clear and went back to the pictures. “Yeah, ‘f course. Took care of some of the biochem doctors, too.” 

Timmy’s head shot up again, eyes like the moon and hands still on the spreadsheets. He cleared his throat. “Um, did you…was one of them a Doctor Collins?” 

He was apprehensive, nervous. Jason was no Cass, but he wasn’t worried for Doctor Collins’ sake. That bastard had done something. 

“Yeah. James Collins is all done.” His shoulders slumped a little in relief and Jason kinda wanted to shoot the bastard all fucking over again. He’d fucking deserve it. 

He wanted to ask Tim what Collins had done, poke and prod until he got answers, but the kid had already turned back to the spreadsheets he was examining, so Jason did the same. A couple of minutes later, Tim hurriedly reached for a pen and started writing a shit ton of numbers on the back of one of the pages. 

“What? What is it, Timmy?” he asked, setting down the photos. The kid just shook his head and kept scrawling out numbers and equations in a frenzy, brow creased in concentration. A little intrigued, Jason just folded his hands and sat, watching Tim work. 

He reached blindly for a map of Gotham, fingers dancing along the top of the desk but still not looking up, so Jason nudged one into his hand. It was so FUCKING strange, Timmy didn’t even ACKNOWLEGE him, now scribbling away on the map, making stars and circles and dots and lines. 

This was the same kid who couldn’t stop himself from apologizing, the same kid who was all whispered “please” and “thank you” and politeness and manners. It was almost like he was hyped on something, honestly, even though Jason knew he wasn’t. Tim was jerky, but swift and coordinated, making confident and bold strokes of blue ink, totally nonverbal too. It was…weird. Really fucking weird. 

Jason sat and watched, arms folded, for a solid three minutes, watching the kid tear apart the spreadsheets, map, and financial reports he was obsessing over. Finally, the trance was broken, and Tim looked up, meeting his eyes directly, dropping the pen right on the desk. 

“The contingency plan,” he breathed out with glassy eyes, and Jason leaned forward, snapped to attention. Every cell in his brain was on high alert right now, because as far as Jason knew, there WASN’T a contingency plan. 

It made sense, of course, for Jack and Janet Drake to have one. They were meticulous and careful, and the Red Hood had blown their drug lab and drug doctors sky high. 

“What, Tim?” he prompted, narrowing his eyes. Tim’s gaze flickered back towards him, and the haze cleared. 

“Rapid-fire sale of all the remaining Angel Juice stores. At,” he pulled the map into his lap, and pointed at each starred location, all across Burnley. “these locations. There’s a pattern, over the next month, so it can’t be attributed to Drake Industries. They’ll declare the company bankrupt within the next three weeks, the second the last sale is carried out, they’ll be on a flight out of Gotham will all of their important belongings.” 

Jason ignored the way that Tim said the last bit, the way that he had decided that he himself, their SON, was not one of their important belongings, in favor of wondering how the flying flipping fuck Timmy had figured all this out just now. 

The starred locations looked totally random, the timeframe sounded like a shot in the dark, the bankruptcy very cut and run and erratic, but the kid had stated everything with an utmost confidence, a complete faith in what he was saying. It made approximately zero sense, but Jason was quickly coming to learn that Timmy Drake was an unpredictable genius who should seriously not be underestimated. 

“Tim,” he started slowly, staring down at the map and the mess of papers. “How the hell did you figure all this sh…uh, stuff out?” 

He looked up with a little pleased smile and pulled one of the spreadsheets that he’d marked up out of the mess on the desk, pointing to the amounts received. 

“Look at the sums they’ve received. They’re all pretty similar, right? But still, why accept such random amounts for the Angel Juice? I mean,” he pulled out another spreadsheet and pointed to amounts the Drakes had PAID. “These numbers are all precise and rounded off, right? So why are the others so weird? Well it was kind of a shot in the dark, but…”

Tim gestured to the map of Gotham on his lap, tugging the corner to straighten it back out, absolutely alight. Honestly, he looked so excited Jason just wanted to scoop him into a massive hug. This was…insane. This was practically the entire goddamn case he’d just fucking solved and dammit, Tim deserved to look to excited. JASON was excited. 

“The received amounts? They were coordinates. Coordinates for the sales, THAT’S why they were never listed! THESE locations,” he gestured animatedly towards the stars on the map, “are the next sale locations! They’re gonna want to get rid of the stores of Angel Juice and then cut all ties here, so they aren’t gonna try and rearrange any of them, just shuck the drugs off!”

Tim looked up, with wide shining eyes full of pride to meet Jason’s own. “Tim,” he started slowly, reaching up to rest his hands on the kid’s shoulders. “This,” he nodded over to the mass of inked spreadsheets, “is absolutely incredible. YOU are incredible, just,” Jason moved his hands away from the kid’s tiny little shoulders, shaking his head. “I have no idea how you figured all of this out.” 

Timmy absolutely BEAMED, face splitting into a massive, proud grin, face sparkly with the same kind of unabashed joy that he’d had the first night, when he’d explained his little organizational system. It was infectious, this kind of smile, wide and glittering and just fully, wholly, happy, the kid of smile that filled a whole room. 

The kind of smile Jason wanted Timmy to keep smiling, the kind of smile he deserved. 

Even if he’d wanted to, Jason would never have been able to stop the matching grin that spread across his own face. 

After a few moments, Jason cleared his throat and looked back at the map. There were…quite a few starred locations. 

“Is there any order to the sales, do you know?” The smile faded and the kid quirked his lips in an odd way. He was kicking himself, just a little, for asking questions instead of just letting Timbo enjoy his victory for a minute or two, but he DID have a job to do. 

Timmy sighed, and pulled a stack of spreadsheets towards himself. “Uh, they’re organized by the week. So all the coordinates on one weekly spreadsheet will happen, like, the dated week.” He gestured to the weekly date intervals at the top of the pages. “But the specific times aren’t specified in any of the evidence I have. I um,” he glanced up, like he expected to see disappointment or reproach or something, even though he was doing a fucking amazing job. “I um, actually think they decide, like, that night. Untraceable phone call. Just a hunch, though.” 

That did make sense. No drug lord wants both meeting places AND times on paper to incriminate them. He supposed this meant camera monitoring, or in-depth patrolling through the night. Oh, if only he still had Babs. 

Snapping himself out of his plotting, Jason shook his head. “Christ, Timmers, I dunno how the hell you managed to figure all this out, but it sure is pretty fu-freaking incredible.” The kid offered him a small smile. 

“You can, like…swear. If you want. Um, I’m thirteen, it’s okay, Jason.” Jason glowered at him, crossing his arms over his chest, scoffing. 

“Shaddup, Timmy, you’re a child. I don’t wanna curse in front of a child.” Yeah, by thirteen, Jason’d heard and said just about every swear word on the planet, but…but a whole helluva lot of ‘em, he’d heard from one Willis Todd. 

And Jason wasn’t exactly 100% sure, but he was fairly certain that Tim had heard his fair share of vicious cussing from Jack Drake. That was one thing they sure had in common, and like HELL was Jason gonna ever try and remind Timmy of his shit parents. 

The small little smile he received in return was affirmation. 

A few hours later, Tim was finishing reorganizing all of the evidence on the work desk, and Jason had just finished suiting up, all in costume as the Red Hood for patrol. Jason knocked lightly on the bedroom doorframe, and Tim startled, almost dropping the neatly stacked papers in his hand. 

Seriously, Jason thought, genius kitten. The kid was adorable. 

“Uh, heya Timbo. So, I’ll be back around two or three, I think. You can get the pullout set by yourself?” Tim nodded, still clutching the stack of evidence. 

Jason shifted a little on his feet under the kid’s earnest gaze, suddenly way too worried about leaving him alone in his safehouse, and definitely for all the wrong reasons. 

He should probably be more concerned Tim would find out all of his vigilante secrets or screw with his security system or something, but instead…Jason was worrying about whether or not he’d be able to set up the goddamn pullout couch, or find the ham and cheese in the fridge. 

“Right, okay, and there’s ham and cheese in the fridge for when you get hungry, bread’s on the counter. Um, you can use the TV and the computer, or borrow any of the books.” What else did kids need? Okay, sure, so he himself was still technically a kid, but sue him. It wasn’t like there were a ton of great childcare role models for him to use. 

Alfred, maybe? What would Alf do? 

Tim was nodding, looking a tad bit starstruck, and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna be asking for anything, so Jason took a breath and tried to figure it out. 

“You can use, like, any of the dishes and stuff, any of the food in the fridge. Uh, don’t leave the safehouse, um, I’ll lock up behind myself so don’t worry about that either…” he trailed off, grasping for what the hell else he was supposed to say. 

Tim saved him from that, though, cracking a small smile and sliding the stack of papers he was holding into place. “I’ll be careful, promise. Um, thank you. Very much. Jason.” 

He was a little awkward, but overall seemed pretty okay and unworried about hanging out in the apartment until Jason got back, so he decided to just take it and roll before he started spouting more embarrassingly Alfred-like instructions. 

Jason sighed and slipped his Hood on, sliding open the window. “Just remember to eat somethin’ Timbers.” He grumbled, sliding one leg over the sill. 

The kid nodded seriously, folding his hands in front of himself like he was at a job interview or something. “I will. Uh,” he unfolded his hands, wringing them a little. “Uh, thank you very much, for, y’know, letting me stay here.” 

Something he didn’t care to pay any attention to swelled in his chest, so Jason just nodded and flung himself out of the window, shooting his grapple at the nearest rooftop and flying through the warm night air. 

The sun had dipped below the horizon two hours ago and the city was lit up with bright white and neon bursts. Burnley was a little darker than the rest of Gotham, a little better for freerunning undetected, and that was the plan tonight. 

The eight locations for this week were all relatively close to his safehouse, and so he figured there was no point in just driving circles around Crime Alley on his bike for five hours. 

There was no telling how many sales would be going through tonight, and honestly he had no concrete way of telling if there was even gonna BE one. It could range anywhere between zero and eight, and Jason supposed he was just gonna be bouncing between the locations until one became active. 

Sprinting between the rooftops of Crime Alley was therapeutic and familiar, the rush of air and the adrenaline, the feeling of shooting through the sky on one end of a grapple gun. 

Unfortunately, it did nothing to keep his mind off the kid doing God knows what back at one of his nicest safehouses. Tim was brilliant, that was for sure, and Christ, it was just this morning Jason had learned that Tim totally knew who every one of them was, save for Babs and her new girl, Steph. But on the other hand, he was just a kid. 

Timmy wasn’t a vigilante. He wasn’t a world class acrobat or a crafty thief or an assassin or a ninja. He was smart, that was for sure, absolutely brilliant, but as far as physical or practical ability went, he was a no-go. 

Running across Gotham’s rooftops stalking Bitchman and his posse wasn’t an easy feat and yeah, that kid probably had some pretty solid stamina, but Tim was small. A good gust of wind could probably topple him right over, and a Drake Industries henchman or one of the Bats could bag the kid without breaking a sweat, easy-peasy. 

Tim leaving the safehouse was an unbelievably bad plan, thanks to that. Especially now that he knew Timmy was BFFs with Poison fucking Ivy. But at the same time, he was the Red Hood! He was only seventeen! He was on a headhunt for the kid’s parents!

How was HE supposed to bunk with Timmy for a whole fucking month? A month from now, this was gonna be over one way or another, with the Drakes either in hiding on another continent, dead, or stuck in Blackgate. But the time in between was completely up in the air. 

Tim was a KID, a kid who needed support and a steady place to stay and a family. A kid who deserved a childhood. In another week, or two, he was gonna be switching to another safehouse, and right now, it looked like he was gonna be dragging the kid along with him. 

At this point, Jason was at least man enough to admit that yeah, okay, so maybe he felt kinda protective of Timmy. Yeah, okay, he cared. He was invested and he cared, but he wasn’t old enough OR stable enough to serve as any kinda role model to a thirteen year old who was already better than him. 

Hell, four years wasn’t a massive gap. It was like…Tim kinda felt like maybe a younger brother. Maybe this was how Dick had felt, when he’d shown up with Bruce those first few months. 

He’d been skittish, scared, ready to bolt. Left his bags packed and right next to his bed for everyone to see, so Alf and Bruce and Dickhead and Babs all knew that Jason Todd could be up and gone in seconds, that he wasn’t attached and that he didn’t trust any of them. Dick had been the one, though, that had made him want to stay at first. 

Dick, who insisted on training him everything having to do with gymnastics, who drove him to and from his new school at least twice a week despite his protests, who took him for ice cream and to the fair and introduced him to all his friends. Dick, who’d carefully cleaned and patched a thin cut on his forehead he’d gotten his second night as Robin, after Dick had finally passed up the mantle, who’d sat him down on a table in the cave and told him that like it or not, he was his brother now, and he wasn’t going anywhere. 

It was after that that Jason had gone back to his room that night and removed the six penny novels he’d brought from the Alley from the go bag and stacked them on the nightstand.

Dick’s smile the next morning, when he’d noticed, it was blindingly bright. 

So maybe that’s what Tim was, now. Timmy. He’d sat him down, wrapped his hands, told him he cared. Isn’t…isn’t that exactly what Dick’d done? Cooked him meals and made him eat them, looked through the pictures the kid was so proud of, given him goddamn NICKNAMES, Christ, he’d really gone and pulled a Dickface here. 

Honestly, though? Jason couldn’t even bring himself to mind.

Trying to focus on his patrol, Jason yanked himself out of his memories and inspected the warehouse he was checking out. It was the fourth of the eight locations on the list for the week. No activity, as far as he could tell. With a sigh, Jason leapt off the roof of the apartment building he was on and headed for number five. 

He just about fell outta the sky when his helmet beeped at him. 

There was a comm line open. 

Roy or Kori would just call, the comm lines Babs opened on occasion were discreet, they never beeped at him, neither Dick nor Bruce had the skills to get into his helmet on their own, so…who?

“Hi, uh, Red Hood. Um, sorry to interrupt, uh, your patrol, but um, I know what location the drugs are being sold at.”

Well, that explained it. How the flying fuck did Tim hack his helmet? Was he really that fucking good? 

“How’d you manage to get into my helmet? What?” He asked, trying to keep his voice level as he landed on the next rooftop. Jason wasn’t really angry, or even annoyed, but what the hell? How the fuck did Tim get into his helmet? Barbara herself had helped him do the security on it!

“Uh, your computer. I’m really sorry. It’s just, they’re selling the Angel Juice at the last coordinate on the list, the one near Robbinsville?” Jason shook his head, changing course to head for the warehouse out near Robbinsville. 

“Don’t apologize, Kiddo, I’m just kind of amazed.” Jason could hear Tim clear his throat awkwardly over the tinny connection and he smiled to himself a little bit. “How’d you find where the drug deal was happening?” He asked as he bounced across the rooftops. 

“Um, I hacked the feeds of nearby surveillance cameras for all the locations.” Literally just like fucking Oracle. Timmy was practically Barbara fucking Gordon. 

Jason would never ever send a kid out onto the streets of Gotham in a snazzy costume to fight crime, never. But…a kid behind a computer? 

A kid who, by the way, he thought to himself, had hacked HIS helmet and gotten the information by himself, from the safety of Jason’s own safehouse. He would never ask Timmy to play his own personal Oracle himself, but if Tim WANTED to, well, that was a different story…wasn’t it? 

Maybe. 

“That’s pretty impressive, Kid. Really. Seriously, I might not’ve made it in time if you didn’t call.” There was another awkward throat clear on the line. “Hey, you had dinner right? You made yourself a sandwich?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was the Red goddamn Hood, literally freerunning across Gotham’s rooftops at THIS VERY SECOND and he was worrying about whether or not a thirteen-year-old had eaten or not. For Christ’s sake, he was about to shut down a drug sale! 

But still…Tim looked like he weighed maybe 80 pounds soaking wet…and he HAD already asked, so there was no point in NOT getting an answer. 

“Um, uh, yeah. I had a sandwich. Thanks.” Timmy sounded adorably out of his depth. But also…that was three meals in a day! Babysitter Todd was doing pretty good!

“Hey, so if you’re gonna be hacking my comm…” 

“I’m sorry!” Tim squeaked, before he could say anything else. “I’m really sorry!” Jason sighed. 

“Naw, Kid, I was just gonna say that if you’re gonna be helping me out on cases you probably should have a code name, yeah?” Jason smiled at the excited noise that came outta Timmy’s mouth on the other end of the line. 

“S-seriously? I get a…a name!?” Two words: fucking adorable. 

Timmy may be small and kinda meek, but he was also a closet badass and he did NOT seem like the kind of person to stand to the side and watch Disney movies while the Red Hood was taking down his parents. Tim was a doer, and Jason was pretty certain that there was no way that the kid was gonna NOT help with the Angel Juice case. 

Plus, Timbers was having his mind blown with excitement right now. 

“Yeah, of course. Any ideas?” 

Timmy wasn’t really Oracle, he was more of a sidekick, like Robin. But he wasn’t Robin. Number one, that was Brucie’s thing. Number two, no way in HELL was Tim ever leaving that fucking apartment at night to fight crime. 

And then, Jason had a sort-of idea. And Tim hadn’t answered yet, so he said, “Wait, I’ve got one.” 

“What is it?” the kid asked, voice spilling over with anticipation. 

“How do you like Red Robin?” 

Red Hood plus Robin, it was kinda perfect. Or, at least good enough. 

“Red Robin.” Tim repeated, like he was testing the words out, seeing how he liked them. “Yeah. Yeah, I really like that.”

Jason grinned, the warehouse coming into view now. 

“Okay then, Red Robin. How’s our drug bust looking?”  
  
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**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to lemme know what you think! Spelling errors or suggestions and whatnot!


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